


Green Eyes, Black Sand

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Aladdin: The Animated Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-11-09 12:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/455424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozenrath x Harry. Slash. Set after "Two to Tangle", and at the end of OrderofthePhoenix. Voldemort just wanted a magical servant – what he got was Mozenrath, who wants to do more to Harry then just kill him… Mozenrath was not supposed be raised from dead. It was no wonder Chaos stirred. Mirage saw to it, when making a deal to protect Harry. Mozenrath now finds himself feeling something like love for the boy. Then came Agrabah...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rising the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> To those like myself who had mostly forgotten Mozenrath until recently, he is one of the bad guys in the "Aladdin" TV series; he never played a part in the movies though Disney did leave vague hints to him being Aladdin's brother. This lets me raise an eyebrow and snicker because Mozenrath uses a lot of...um...possessives concerning Aladdin.
> 
> Also, in the last episode with Mozenrath, he made an appearance as Jasmine, nearly got kissed by Aladdin - and tried to take over Aladdin's body. He speaks like something out of a wet dream, slow, rich, and very educated. He has pale skin (to put a contract to Aladdin's dark), dark eyes (showing similarity), and dresses elegantly (while Aladdin dresses in "rags") I'm assuming black hair but we never see it in the TV series. To add a bonus – a talking shape-shifting flying eel, so much more cooler then a misspoken monkey, a parrot, a flying carpet – or even a genie! It speaks in first person but it's so damned cute with its cuddly feelings for Mozenrath you forgive its annoying tendency to be a bitch to write its dialogue. It also serves as an informant to Mozenrath's plots which otherwise we would have no clues to. This will be one of my darker stories, not only will Harry turn dark – he's going to enjoy it. Mozenrath's just the man to see to his corruption…so, read, I dare you!

"…Master, are you sure you wish to do this? It speaks of the darkest kind of magic…" A pentagram lay engraved - filled with the blood of a dozen children born of Voldemort's greatest enemies – muggles, on earth that had not seen sunlight for a hundred years, out of the corner of his eye it seemed to glimmer guiltily.

Voldemort paused as he looked over the words in the ancient scrolls – the foolish man that had spoken held his breath, likely hoping for reconsideration.

He should have known better – he was merely a loyal follower of the Dark Lord, born and bred for service – but not powerful. None of the five men who stood, their feet on either side of the lines that pointed toward them like dragger tips were powerful. None of them would be missed.

"I assure you, I know what I am doing – this will not even take very much longer." Voldemort soothed them, his gaze going over their faces, where once their eyes had flickered nervously in the dark, they steadied, unwilling to look afraid with the eyes of their master on them.

"…Yes, my Lord…" The man who had spoken murmured softly, when Voldemort's eyes fell on him – Voldemort smiled, perhaps they thought he had meant it to be reassuring – for some of them smiled back. After a final look over the ancient spell, Voldemort spoke to them one last time.

"Now – we shall begin, remember you are to chant the words after me – alike an echo, there will be no second chances." His tone promised many things – that if they failed, they would be worse off for it – that if they succeeded, the rewards would be great.

Voldemort was right – it only took five words – repeated by five willing sacrifices, for the ancient spell found buried in the sands to take effect. In front of Voldemort's very eyes, they were slaughtered ruthlessly; ones limbs were removed with only a shrill shriek – he bled out, dieing in the seconds it took for him to take one breath.

One unfortunate had his blood pour out of him like sweat in a matter of seconds – leaving him dry and his heart rupturing with the strain. Another's bones seemed never to have been – his own weight once supported by those bones smothered him in seconds.

The fourth had lost all his senses – could not hear, or taste, or smell, or see, or touch – he screamed, over and over until his throat was slashed by the last, who had gone murderously mad.

That one was the only one killed by Voldemort in a flash of green light. He had determined that there would be no evidence of this, the darkest of magic. As if to answer his request that this be unseen, the shadows within the cave moved, gathering in the pentagram like a thick fog.

On the ground the blood was glimmering – evaporating to keep a line of red around the shadows, keeping whatever lay on the other side - away from Voldemort.

Just as suddenly as the shadow fog arrived, it lifted – parted smoothly, two walls of it on either side of the pentagram… in the center was a naked man reborn again with all the knowledge of the ancient past.

His name, Voldemort knew – was Mozenrath.

Then, as if it had never been, the pentagram flared once – then task gone, completing the last part of the ritual – to bind Mozenrath to him, until Voldemort released him by dieing – or by giving him information on the spell used to raise Mozenrath from the dead. Voldemort intended to do neither.

Without much effort, Voldemort knelt beside the young man – appearing only to be two dozen years old - and lifting him effortlessly from the ground.

Jolted, the boy's brown eyes fluttered open – taking in the scene around them, and then, as if in after thought – Voldemort himself. Voldemort smiled – this time he did not even attempt to make it reassuring.

He had known the boy would speak a different language, so he had twisted what Mozenrath would hear and see so he could understand it. It had been the final element that had drawn him to that particular casting – for what use was a servant that did not understand?

"Where…am I?" The boy demanded softly, his voice was pleasant – dark, but smooth – a bedroom voice.

"It doesn't matter where you are, Mozenrath, I am your Master." Voldemort told him in sinister triumph, Mozenrath's eyes lowered to the cave floor before Voldemort could read his expression.

 _It is too bad_ , Voldemort thought as he guided the boy – who was weak and walked like a wobbly foal - out of the cave… _that he is already broken – I would have liked to teach him his place_.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

_Unknown Location; Later in the Year_

"The boy is on his way – the trap is set, do not disappoint me." Voldemort murmured to the boy in front of him – his boy, who he had recalled from death. Mozenrath had not looked at anyone directly, nor spoken unless first questioned – he was, in Voldemort's opinion, the perfect servant.

Mozenrath bowed, his eyes locked to the floor – in the depths of his eyes was fury. He was careful to mask it, he was never tense – his eyes never narrowed, never pressed his lips together – never clenched his hands – never questioned.

There was no need for any of that – he knew he would escape, his…Master thought only he knew of the ways to rise the dead – did not know Mozenrath had written the very scroll Voldemort had entrapped him in.

Mozenrath knew the way out too, the way out was a thing nearly impossible, to have someone fall in love with you – to be worth saving in the eyes of someone. It would be a cruel irony if that person was Voldemort – but it was not, would never be.

Voldemort could not feel love – he had done something so foolishly idiotic Mozenrath had never considered it – his Master – the dark wizard they called Lord Voldemort had shredded his soul to try to become immortal.

It would not work – Mozenrath's own master had taught very well that it only made you all the more vulnerable. Still – the problem persisted, how was Mozenrath to make someone fall in love with him if he was only allowed to speak to Voldemort? Mozenrath had a plan – one that included the boy Voldemort planned to trap.

With his features to the floor, Mozenrath dared to smirk only slightly as he mused on the fear he knew would soon adorn his 'Masters' features – when he found Mozenrath free from his control. Then he would truly make the Death Eaters….meet Death, only to serve Mozenrath from that day forward, their souls would be trapped in the rotting corpses that their bodies would become.

"You will follow my orders, do you understand?" Mozenrath knew then that he had been silent to long, and slowly – as if he couldn't quite understand the question (he did this because he knew it made Voldemort fear to think he might have done something wrong) nonetheless he was still bound by magic to answer.

"Of course, Master." The tenseness in Voldemort's frame eased for a moment.

"Come along…Moze…" Voldemort's voice was filled with a twisted humor – Mozenrath knew the man liked to try to get a response from him – he only stood and turned to follow, letting Malfoy see, if only for a moment, the loathing Mozenrath dared not show his… _Master_ …

Surrounded by twelve other men in skull masks and black robes – Mozenrath felt quite displaced, Mozenrath wore only a distasteful robe – it was full length and a shade off black with no mask at all – only a deep hood. The same kind Voldemort- who stood with Mozenrath to the side, wore.

Mozenrath had long ago decided to consider him self lucky he did not receive the honor of a "Dark Mark" – his wrist, unlike those around him, was bare. It was a mark – as good as a brand, meant to show the Death Eaters that Mozenrath was less then them – a servant, brought back from the dead to, unwilling or not – faithfully serve Lord Voldemort.

Unlike them – Mozenrath knew he had a way out of the arrangement. If Voldemort's enemies were made to see that Mozenrath was an unwilling prisoner, and think him – as those who considered themselves 'good' often did – worth saving.

All Mozenrath needed to do was to meet these enemies – and ask them just one question. Was he worth saving? Then they would pity him – and it would go in either direction, killing Voldemort was as good as someone falling in love with Mozenrath –it would, after all, have the same effect.

"Go now." Voldemort ordered his Death Eaters – in a moment, Mozenrath watched then disappear, envy stirring within him.

"An orb." Voldemort murmured – and Mozenrath knew what he wanted, the globe of clear stone was clutched in Voldemort's skeletal hands – without looking at him, Mozenrath laid a hand on it – forcing his power to meld with Voldemort's and create the image Voldmort wanted to see.

Lord Voldemort's greatest enemies were mere children – Mozenrath hurriedly bit back the urge to laugh, though despite his best efforts his eyes glimmered with suppressed amusement. Lucius, of course – chose then to ask rather politely for one orb among the thousands that lined the shelves, fools that they were they admitted why they wanted it – pointed out the trap, and though he would have expected better, they then mocked the children.

Throughout the spectacle, Mozenrath searched among the children for one that looked like a "Harry Potter" – then chaos erupted as the children unexpectedly threw spells at the Death Eaters – even managing to harm one of them.

They watched the group of six children split into two groups of three – and the eleven Death Eaters had to struggle to keep up. To say Mozenrath was amused was an understatement. Voldemort's great plan – which he had spent month going over - was falling apart because of one black haired boy. It remained Mozenrath eerily of Aladdin.

They watched the three children rid themselves of the Death Eaters that chased after them – only to arrive in a room with a veil, a veil Mozenrath remembered…Mozenrath watched expressionless as things unfolded – it looked almost as if – amazingly, the Death Eaters would pull it off – then the Order of the Phoenix (or so Mozenrath took them to be, as Voldemort spit the name out like a curse) arrived to aid the children.

A clammy hand grasped his arm painfully, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach Mozenrath felt himself 'pulled' along with Voldemort…only to land rather awkwardly in front of a white haired old man.

Mozenrath looked out from beneath his hood, seemingly unruffled from the abrupt turn of events, he – once released from Voldemort's hold, straitened his robe as he looked around him. The old man demanded answers – and Voldemort absently answered him, his attention obviously elsewhere.

Mozenrath knew the old man hoped to draw Voldemort's sole attention to him – but Mozenrath sensed something amiss. Just as the orb Voldemort had tucked away in his robe had revealed – there were obvious signs of a fight, then Mozenrath's attention was drawn irrevocably to the boy Voldemort held some connection to.

The boy had foolishly looked Voldemort in the eyes, Mozenrath had a moment of pity for the boy – before he felt Voldemort claw into his power – feeding from it, Mozenrath did not scream, no matter that he wanted to go mad with the pain. Mozenrath gave a choking, surprised gasp, his knees buckling – he fell, hands harshly hitting the ground as he lay panting on his side – his magic swiftly leaving him, he was helpless - powerless as he was swept into Voldemort's mind-link with the boy.

Mozenrath had long ago learned to stand by and watch – to do nothing when one like Voldemort abused him. He was smarter then that – he would wait, plan – and then, when Voldemort least expected it – when it seemed nothing could go wrong – only then would Mozenrath strike and use the ritual Voldemort had used to become reborn in this world against him. It was the perfect plot.

Mozenrath had not thought he would be swayed from it by a mere boy.

But the boy – this Harry Potter, he had thought Voldemort a fool to fear, was fighting back, ripping his mind away from Voldemort's hold. It reminded Mozenrath of his last encounter with Aladdin, how he had attempted to take over his body. Mozenrath had failed – as Voldemort was failing now.

Mozenrath was impressed, and could not help the glimmer of hope that stirred within him – ruthlessly; he hid it before Voldemort could take notice. Then, just as he thought Voldemort might succeed in killing him – he was…gone – the presence of the dark wizard that had seeped into his skin and crawled at his very spirit had abandoned Mozenrath to the fate his enemies chose for Mozenrath.

Mozenrath opened his eyes, all over, he ached – but he was, for now, free. He was no fool, he knew that Voldemort could recollect him – but if Mozenrath was anything, he was clever – if he made himself a spy for Voldemort, his…Master…would not dare to remove him.

Mozenrath did not stir from the ground – not even when he felt the boy hover over him, undecided.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Mozenrath heard, as if from a great distance, one of the other children – perhaps friends of the boy speak out against Harry approaching Mozenrath's fallen form.

"I'm checking on him – Voldemort…Voldemort was _feeding_ on his power, while he was trying to invade my mind." Mozenrath had to give the boy credit – he was stubborn, almost as bullheaded and determined as Aladdin had proved to be many a time.

"No need – he is likely dead, Voldemort would not leave such a valuable… _tool_ , alive." A man spit out, it was not the elderly one who had made the statues move to defend them – nor was it the man who had stopped the boy from following… "Sirius", Mozenrath thought it was, into the veil.

Harry knelt by his side, his aura felt bright – his power reaching to Mozenrath's even as his hand tilted the robe's hood back, exposing Mozenrath's face for all of the strangers to see. Some of them were surprised, Mozenrath by inspiration, most found him lovely to behold – but Mozenrath himself was unmoved by such sentiments.

All that mattered to him was his freedom – and his survival. In the boy – he saw a way to achieve both ends. If the boy had the power to resist Voldemorts and his own power combined, then Mozenrath knew he had to use him to be free.

Harry's hand was soft on Mozenrath's wrist, a dainty weight he could not ignore. Mozenrath shuddered as he breathed in – suffering from the lack of magic Voldemort had seen fit to strip him of.

"He's alive!" The boy hollered to those watching, seeing fit to confirm Harry's words, Mozenrath's eyes squinted open.

"What's your name?" Harry asked him in a hushed tone – blessedly soft among all the grating noise of the other, more foreign voices.

"Mozenrath…." He hissed out through chapped lips – from behind Harry came a spell to put him to sleep – Mozenrath sighed softly as it hit him, closing his eyes – in the corner of his mind still awake he heard the boy exclaim something, but it did not concern Mozenrath at the moment – so he let darkness claim him.


	2. Deal With Mirage

The room – no the entire house, smelled of dust – for all that it was clean, no one could possibly wash away the impression of the grander days the walls had seen.

The sole grand window was curtained – and closed, with powerful spells laid on it that kept it unchanged. Of the two occupants in the room, only one was awake – straddling the wooden chair and keeping a close watch on the bed, and its occupant.

Both had dark hair – but that was their only similarity. The boy on the chair was a clear teenager, though a very odd looking one – he was hollow eyed – for all that his eyes were the brightest green, they seemed shadowed with a great weight of emotional pain.

He was also very gangly – in a way that hinted of being malnourished, for all that he was not quite grown out of the rough awkwardness of being a teenager, though there were hints of the powerful young man he would become – if given enough time and half a chance.

Malnourishment had stunted his growth, so he was not nearly so tall as a boy his age should be, so short that one would usually not hesitate to call him petite behind his back, if he were not the Boy-Who-Lived.

The bedridden man was at least half a dozen years older then the boy – a certain kind of… darkness, clung to him. It was not just the darkness of his black clothes, nor even an impression caused by the mass of dark hair that surrounded his strangely attractive deathly pale skin.

They inky darkness went beyond the physical of looks, blood, and bone – it went to his core, to his magic - his magic was what had caught and ensnared Harry's attention.

It was the sole reason why Harry – despite still mourning Sirius, had insisted to be by the stranger's side, least he wake – for how little Harry knew of the man, he was still attracted to him.

What he knew was that the man – who had said "Mozenrath" was his name, for all that then they thought it a spell to attack Harry with. He was also, until recently… _dead_ – so Harry knew because of spells cast on Mozenrath (and had glimpsed in visions he had thought false…).

The Dark Lord, for no good reason that they could determine, had brought back Mozenrath from death – all of Mozenrath, his soul, his power – every memory up to his last moments. They did not know why.

There were marks of torture on him – for all that his face remained unblemished. Torture, they had told Harry – that occurred before death, before the Dark Lord Voldemort…They, likewise, could not tell Harry in what timeline the man had lived in.

The only answers which they could hold hope to count upon, were rooted within the mind of the man that lay so innocently upon the mattress – Mozenrath who Harry knew would soon awake.

All at once, Mozenrath moved then - as if possessed, for there was no pause between being unaware and waking – his eyes having snapped open as he lunged forward to sit up – the liquid brown eyes had skittered over the room, as if to search for someone – when his eyes met Harry's he seemed to relax quite quickly.

"Harry?" There was an odd accent to his tone – one that hinted at his original language, for the life of him, Harry couldn't seem to place it. Nonetheless, at being addressed, Harry nodded, silently confirming who he was.

"Mozenrath…?" He tried the name, receiving a careful nod in turn, nervously – Harry licked his lips. He had thought of many things to ask – what were Voldemort's plans, was Mozenrath a dark wizard - if Mozenrath was tied unwillingly to Voldemort.

As that had been suggested, and was most likely, for Mozenrath seemed one who – although dark, was his own master. Somehow – with Mozenrath watching him as if what Harry said was critical to his own survival, Harry couldn't bring himself to ask any of that.

Mozenrath shifted uncomfortably in the bed sheets, for he was not content to sit still and be watched. Unsteadily, he brought his legs over the edge of the bed – throughout all his movements, Mozenrath had watched Harry carefully for clues to what the boy would do.

He need not have worried – Harry watched him dumbly, as if not understanding why Mozenrath was attempting to leave.

"Wait – _ah_ , where are you going?" Harry having realized only then that Mozenrath intended to stand moved his hand quickly –reaching out to lightly touch Mozenrath's suddenly tensed shoulder.

"I must relieve myself." Mozenrath answered in a drawl and was rewarded – not to mention amused – with a glimpse of how red Harry's face could become, he was chuckling softly as the boys mouth opened and closed like a fish, attempting to speak –eventually, he succeeded.

"Oh – I'll help you to the restroom." Harry muttered in soft, embarrassed, tones – his tanned skin was still lovely and flushed, he made a point to carefully avoiding looking at Mozenrath, least he become even more embarrassed.

Harry stood quite easily from the chair, putting out a hand to steady Mozenrath when he attempted to do the same. Eventually – with carefully measured steps, they made it to the bathroom. Mozenrath looked into the room, turning to look down at Harry with amused raised eyebrow.

It occurred to Harry, then, that Mozenrath was from a past… and thus unfamiliar with a toilet…or shower…Mozenrath chuckled darkly under his breath when the boy tensed, shifting uncomfortably as he paused to consider what, exactly, he was going to do about this dilemma.

"The, um – the seat with a bowl is where your…waste goes – you might, ah, have to aim for it…" Harry struggled to explain, when Mozenrath merely gave him a frustratingly blank look.

Harry sighed softly, wishing he was not the only one here – but summer had started, and the Order was busy, and Harry had been given leave to spend the summer in the Black Manor, simply because someone had to be there when Mozenrath woke. It had taken such a long time, and Harry did not want to give him a bad impression.

"If you, you know…have to urinate…you stand and aim over the bowl." Harry blurted out, ducking his head to study the floor, knowing that as much as Mozenrath was likely confused, he was also entirely too amused by the entire scene.

"How _civilized_." Harry felt as if he was somehow being insulted, for all that Mozenrath kept his tone reasonable and polite. Mozenrath slowly entered, leaving Harry behind him, and with a _thunk_ of the door behind him, Harry knew he was expected to wait.

So, feeling as if he was a peeping tom, Harry waited – and listened as Mozenrath obeyed his instructions. Then, evidently curious of the handle which was attached to the toilet successfully flushed (Harry couldn't be sure but he thought there was a soft – if muffled- yelp). Harry was slightly alarmed to hear the chime of the porcelain as it was moved.

"Alright in there?" He called his hand already on the door handle – wondering what he would find on the other side.

"I am unharmed," there was yet another flush – though no hint of a yelp this time – then came Mozenrath's sophisticated voice, with a real hint of interest, "where does the waste go?"

"To the – uh, sewers." Harry was just guessing, as he had never really thought of it before. Maybe it was just magically banished once flushed and out of sight. There was another chime, then a third and final flush, and a wet sleeved Mozenrath reappeared, looking somewhat sheepish.

"What _happened_?" Harry demanded to know – Mozenrath shrugged, and answered so softly Harry almost did not hear.

"I wanted to know how it worked." Harry wondered, then, how Mozenrath had gotten rid of waste when with Voldemort. So he asked – the answer, as Mozenrath put it- was simply that Voldemort's magic had kept Mozenrath's body "fed, watered, and waste free" – an apparent side effect of the magic used to raise Mozenrath from the dead. Now that he was away from Voldemort, such "side effects" would dissolve.

"Is there a way to be," Mozenrath paused then, looking around the dusty hall, his eyes landing accusingly on Harry's haggard appearance, then, pressing his lips together he continued, " _clean_ , in this place?" Again, for all of Mozenrath's pleasantness, Harry was left with the feeling that he had been measured, weighed, and found lacking.

"Yeah, uh – there's a shower stall in there – or you can have a bath, I suppose." Harry didn't get a chance to speak further, for Mozenrath had spun back around – the door was promptly slammed in Harry's face. He blinked at it – finding himself entirely befuddled by Mozenrath…

"Does the knob turn it on?" Mozenrath spoke through the door, and Harry sighed then yelled an affirmative. Only then, when he heard that the shower was on through the door, did he speculate that Mozenrath would likely want something to eat next. Harry sighed wondering when he'd volunteered to become a cook, then trudged down the stairs, leaving Mozenrath to his own devices.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Mozenrath sighed in relief when the water sprinkled down from the showerhead – not only did it relax his nerves and aching muscles to feel the cool water flow down his skin, but he was confident now that he could find his own way in the world, without Voldemort's magic to keep him.

He tilted his head back – his black hair had returned to be as long as it had been when he had been alive. Mozenrath felt as it brushed his flanks, though he had closed his eyes as he considered which among the bottles with unreadable labels the soap was.

In truth, he found out quite by accident – though he would never admit that. He moved to touch one of the bottles, and a bar of soap fell to the drain. There, it scudded; he knelt then reaching out a finger to pluck at the bubbles. A small smirk settled over his features as he stood, it was a victory against the control Voldemort held over him – to make him helpless in this new era, solely reliant on Voldemort.

Then – as if to contradict his assumption, a soft laugh startled him – for a moment, he thought it was the boy – but it wasn't, the laugh was far too feminine.

"Who's there?" Mozenrath's eyes had snapped open as he rushed to find the source, wishing dearly for his glove. He found it quickly enough – yellow cat eyes stared at him from the mirror. At first the image was foggy – all but the yellow eyes, then it parted for him, eerily rolling the fog to the sides, swirling at the edges.

"Looking for me, Mozenrath…?" Purred the voice of a woman – a woman with cat features, though they seemed to enhance her beauty, rather then diminish it.

"Am I to assume you are Mirage?" Mozenrath murmured softly, not at all embarrassed at his state of undress. In fact, as if to imply her appearance had not startled him, he began to use the soap, keeping his eyes on Mirage all the while.

"Why, Mozenrath, I am surprised at you – if I did not know better I would say you _expected_ to see me…" Mirage's eyes roved over Mozenrath's body, lingering on his thighs and ass – she was utterly without shame, licking her lips when Mozenrath finally glanced to her.

"I did not – what do you want Mirage?" Mozenrath knew Mirage never came without a alternate purpose.

"Let us make a deal, Mozenrath – I will give you your beloved magical glove…in return…." Mirage paused then, for Mozenrath had bent to wash his legs – she admired the view, amused that Mozenrath would go to such lengths to pretend he was not disturbed at her presence.

"My dear boy – are you attempting to _distract_ me?" Mirage asked softly - seductive, Mozenrath chuckled softly, looking up at her his eyes were dark as he tilted his body so the spray of water ran off him all the more attentively.

"That depends, Mirage – is my attempt at seduction working?" Mozenrath asked in turn, a certain dark promise in his words.

"Well enough, dear boy – well enough…now," Mirage frowned slightly taking in his surroundings, but pressed on when she saw Mozenrath play at being bored, "our deal – if you agree to it, would your glove – in exchange for corrupting the boy, protect him – love him – make him your apprentice." Mozenrath stiffened then – wondering what Mirage wanted with Harry.

"What will you do with him once I …corrupt him?" Mozenrath asked, narrow eyed, and Mirage slowly smiled, having known he would ask that. Between the two of them, they knew which was stronger – and which had the deadlier secrets.

"Nothing," Mozenrath looked so doubtful that Mirage chuckled, "well… nothing that would not naturally occur if he knew his true origins." Mozenrath looked aside as he considered the deal in depth – he had no moral dilemmas about the deal. Though it was a long term deal – one which would take years, years Mozenrath did not know if he could afford.

"Think, Mozenrath – with your glove…you could break the binding with the weak Dark Lord – without the boys love – but I want you to aid him, turn him to a darker path then those around him would seek for him." In Mozenrath's opinion, Mirage seemed almost frantic that he agreed – she did not show it, but she was all too willing to trade anything for him to agree.

"I will agree on one condition," Mozenrath began, and Mirage snarled, but nonetheless leaned forward to show she was listening, "when I ask it of you – you will take both of us, Harry and I, back in time, when I was Lord of the Black Sands." Mirage did not seem surprised to hear his request. She was silent for a time – enough of it passed to make Mozenrath worry that he had asked too much of her.

"Agreed – you corrupt the boy; you and the boy get a free ride to your own time – and your glove." Mirage murmured softly – reluctant and pouting, but Mozenrath knew he could trust her not to go back on her word.

"Then you have a deal, Mirage…" Mozenrath whispered to the empty room.

Mirage was gone from the mirror; only his image stared back at him.

Harry knocked sharply on the door to the bathroom, it was quickly answered by Mozenrath – only, a _naked_ Mozenrath. Harry spun quickly around, his face flushed – images of Mozenrath's dripping form hovered guiltily over his consciences.

"I – um, forgot to get you clothes – be right back." Harry hurriedly strode down the hall, while did so, he could have sworn Mozenrath's eyes had been watching his ass. _You wish_ , Harry told himself firmly as he went into his rooms and spelled them to fit Mozenrath. Harry was careful to look only at the floor when he went back to the bathroom, holding the cloths out as if as an offering to a god- which Mozenrath might as well be, at what chance Harry had to touch him.

"You are not well suited to your dress…" Mozenrath started, and then paused, glimpsing the stubborn set to Harry's jaw. Mozenrath pressed his lips together – he hated being so underdressed. When Mozenrath had been the Lord of the Black Sand, his cloths had been downright extravagant – well kept, and never was an arterial of cloth worn more then three times a month. Obviously – he could not be so picky here.

"What do your parents do?" Mozenrath asked instead, finding it a safe topic – for as much as he knew of common talk, families were important.

"Their…dead…" _Obviously not such a safe topic_ , Mozenrath scolded himself slipping on the boy's charmed robes – wishing all the while that Mirage would hurry up and get his glove to him, so he could change his clothing to something that would give everyone who saw him the feeling of being underdressed and ill suited to be in Mozenrath's mere presence.

"I'm sorry for my lack of tact– if it makes any difference to you, I never knew mine either, though I think I am no worse off for not knowing them." Mozenrath spoke, once dressed – noticing that the boy's shoulders were stiff and his back still turned to him.

"I…I was the cause of their deaths, Lord Voldemort was after me, and they died protecting me…" Harry explained haltingly, and Mozenrath wondered at what to do – for he was no good at comforting people. A mischievous look passed over Mozenrath's eyes – and before he could be stopped, he wrapped his arms around the boy's waist, holding him against Mozenrath's still damp body, nuzzling his nose into the boy's soft black hair.

"W-what are you doing?" Harry demanded, suddenly caught up again in the all too familiar images of Mozenrath's naked body – without the robe – yet still pressing Harry against him. Mozenrath's lips brushed his sensitive earlobe as he spoke.

"They did what any parent would do, Harry – protect their child, even in the face of death." Mozenrath whispered softly, his breath stirring the small hairs along Harry's neck. Harry swallowed, and by his own estimation it was quite loud.

Mozenrath's arms tightened for a moment around him – and Harry bit his lip to keep from shivering or moaning softly. The body beneath the robes had left little to his imagination – taking into consideration, of course – that Harry had see the man that had so suddenly hugged and abruptly released him, fully nude.

Harry did not speak as he led Mozenrath back to his rooms, and Mozenrath didn't seem to care when Harry closed the door behind him, separating the two…for now.


	3. Play of Eels and Snakes

Mozenrath's lips twitched in amusement as he glanced to the solid wood door that barred from leaving "his" room. Teasing the boy had been… _fun_. The first real fun, in fact, that he had had since Voldemort had brought him back from death – Mozenrath had almost forgotten how fun seduction could be. There was a dark joy in knowing he had a certain amount of power over the boy, by confusing him – by making his body respond to Mozenrath's own.

"You are having _far_ too much fun with the boy." Mirage stated, she had appeared in the mirror desk near Mozenrath's bed, her hands were folded under her chin, and she looked more then a little amused.

Though, as she was more then a little cat-like, that was harder to determine. Mozenrath sighed and rolled onto his side to face the mirrored dresser – her image greeted him – slowly, she nodded; as he tapped his fingers along the edge of the bed, the glove suddenly covered those very same fingers.

"Thank you, Mirage…you have no idea how much this means to me." Mozenrath seemed enchanted by the sight of the glove against his skin. He closed his eyes, seeming to savor it, as someone else might do with a fine wine.

"I think I do, Mozenrath," Mirage countered softly her eyes distant, "I think I do."

Before Mozenrath could think of speaking to her, she had disappeared; he bit his bottom lip at the sight of the empty mirror, finding himself rather annoyed that she had not stayed to explain herself.

His gloved hand clenched and he looked to the mirror, then to his gloved fist, a small smirk ghosted his lips. All of a sudden black and blue flames leapt from the glove to the mirror – from the center, it peeled the sides revealing a different landscape then that which Mozenrath resided in.

It was at first only the image of a desert, then ruins – and sheltered within those ruins was what he had been searching for, as he seemed unordinary pleased to see that there was a flying eel seemingly desolately hovering among all the abandoned junk.

Mozenrath stood from his bed, walking to the mirror and the image it held, merely a step away, he halted and raised his hand –the tips of his fingers could have brushed the glass if he had only twitched them. Slowly, deliberately – he beckoned to the image of the eel.

Impossibly, the eel came forward – through the mirror – curling itself around Mozenrath's hand, its snake like skin slithering up his arm to look him in the face. It hissed softly, its gaping jaws could have easily ripped Mozenrath's face to shreds – instead, it spoke.

"Mozenrath brought Xerxes back!" The voice was perky – an odd mix of hyperactive teenager with a frog in their throat, but Mozenrath smiled slightly to hear it. The eel nudged his cheek with its own, it's warm skin felt leathery and smelled like sand.

"Indeed, I did," Mozenrath allowed after Xerxes had settled itself enough to curl around his neck, "I have a favor to ask of you, Xerxes – there is a man in this time that brought me back to life – a man who bound my magic to his own." Xerxes hissed in distaste for the unnamed man, his tail thrashing as he tried to fought his instincts – in part they were to hover protectively over Mozenrath, the stronger instinct warred to shred the being that had dared to enslave his master. Partly to affirm he was still listening – and partly for need of contract - he nudged Mozenrath's jaw gently, encouraging the sorcerer to continue.

"You will not, of course, be able to break these bonds – I do not expect that - but I suspect that you may cause a fair amount of mischief if let loose in this dark wizards lair." Xerxes snickered softly, the sound alike to muffled giggles. Mid-air he circled Mozenrath once, getting a sense –as all familiars could – of Mozenrath's health.

"Xerxes is good at mischief." The flying eel purred softly, quite content when Mozenrath reached forward to scratch at his chin and under jaw.

"I know you are. It would please me if – when someone discovers this mischief – you change your form to appear as I am for a few moments, and then disappear back into the shadows." Mozenrath continued intently wanting his familiar to understand that while he wanted him to cause trouble he did not want him caught – or harmed for the sake of their little "game", Xerxes' tail merely flicked in surprise.

"Xerxes takes Mozenrath's shape?" Xerxes blinked at him, quite honestly astonished by the mere suggestion of shape shifting into Mozenrath's form. Xerxes was a magical creature – and quite honestly could shape shift whenever he wanted – though he had long ago appeased Mozenrath by only changing into beings or things that could be helpful.

"Yes, Xerxes, that's _exactly_ what I want." Mozenrath nodded firmly, so as to leave no doubt that that was what he was suggesting. Xerxes preformed a midair figure-eight, circling Mozenrath, and then turning to meet him eye-to-eye.

"Where is Xerxes to go?" The little eel demanded, apparently determined to go – Mozenrath smiled at him, as if he was a child.

"I will take you there through the mirror – to come back merely think of this room – to do this, you merely need to agree to go along with my little plot to disband those… _mongrels_ …" Mozenrath's gaze turned to steel, and knowing he would disturb Xerxes if his familiar thought it was directed toward him, turned his gaze to the mirror.

The image of the mirror – of the ruins – changed to dungeons Mozenrath recognized all too well.

"Xerxes goes to do as Mozenrath wants now." The flying eel affirmed loyally, pausing only to "hug" Mozenrath by wrapping himself gently around the sorcerer's neck, without a look back he flicked his tail and disappeared into the mirror – the surface of which only rippled slightly before smoothing.

With a flick of his fingers, the blue-black flames seemed to sink into the metal that framed the mirror, leaving Mozenrath obviously drained – he had cast a spell upon the mirror that if Xerxes wanted to, he could come back to Mozenrath if in need. Mozenrath was not so foolish to leave his familiar without a way to get back to him if in need. No would not loose Xerxes to something so foolish.

On wobbly legs, Mozenrath managed to get to his bed, only to half collapse on it. He was panting with effort when he'd finally managed to settle himself comfortably. He closed his eyes, imagining the trouble Xerxes was going to cause Voldemort, and then finding himself grinning somewhat darkly, he muffled his face by his pillow and laughed. It all reminded him far too much of his childhood with Destane.

The man had been a sadistic and ruthless master, "like a father", Mozenrath had once told Aladdin. In return for his 'kindness', Mozenrath had turned Destane into one of his Mamluks – a half-dead obedient slave.

Mozenrath didn't think this situation, in the end, would turn out very differently.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Severus kept his stride evenly paced as he walked the halls that led to his potions chamber, every once in a while his nerves would twinge in agony, but he kept the spasms well controlled. He controlled it so well that only the slight narrowing of his eyes – or perhaps pressing his lips in a grimace – would give him away, anything but to make a sound or to flinch in pain.

Sound, in this place – provoked.

Fear – terror, horror, those were unthinkable to show.

So when Severus walked into his potion chambers – his only true refuge in the Dark Lord's lair – he was silent as a graveyard upon seeing the damage. His desk looked as if a giant hammer had crushed it to bits. Anything wooden had been somehow blasted into splinters.

The cauldrons that had been lined up in rows, that a moment before had been filled with potions Voldemort's Death Eaters would need sometime in the near future – were warped and tossed carelessly about the room. They looked to have been – impossible as it seemed to be able to do to a metal that resisted magic – boiled. Instead of smooth metal bowls, they were lumps of boiled metal.

Old wooden bookcases that had lined the walls on either side of the door were scattered splitters across the floor. Where once he had stored potion ingredients, test tubes – books, and even rare specimens were in chaos. Potion ingredients were absolutely unsalvageable – not only did they have broken canisters, but depending on what they were they were hacked to pieces – burnt – or seeming to be torn apart at a whim.

His precious test tubes ranging in contents from unstable ingredients to finished stock were mere broken glass, and the after effects of the potion on the stone. The books – once merely priceless – were worthless, potion ingredients spilt upon them, pages torn to sheds and scattered around the chamber.

All that work could be replaced – but the rare specimens, _those_ , Severus noticed absently in the numb corner in his mind that was not in a screaming rage – _if_ they could be replaced, would take _years_ to do so.

Very softly, there was a muffled giggle.

There were, Severus knew, two escapes from the potion chamber, one that everyone saw – and one that until that moment Severus had only thought himself, Voldemort, and only the other members of the Inner Circle knew of. Severus glimpsed the pale features and dark hair of Voldemort's boy _pet_ , before it slipped through the second escape route.

Pulling his lips into a snarl, no longer feeling any pain in the dark rage that burned though Severus – he left the potion chamber – the door slamming shut behind him.

"That," Voldemort whispered in the stillness of his chambers that cloaked them after Severus' announcement, "is quite an impossible feat, Severus." Perhaps it had been a bad idea to disturb Voldemort in his own rooms, but Severus had felt – at the time – quite justified in his impulsiveness.

"What do you mean by "impossible", my lord?" Severus asked carefully, wary of Voldemort's unpredictable temper. Voldemort looked aside, considering answering as he reclined on his favorite chair – his Nagini curled at his feet – the snake never took her eyes off Severus (or, really, anyone else who invaded her masters domain) perhaps he was being paranoid, but she seemed to be watching him as if he was prey.

"I have sent my Mozenrath into the very heart of the Order of the Phoenix." Voldemort explained very softly, Severus – very carefully – controlled his reaction to this news. He raised his eyebrow – just a bit, inviting Voldemort to continue.

"Oh, I'm sure my boy thinks he's escaped me – or that he can make some sort of deal with me to stay where he is – but he is _mine_. Don't you agree, Severus?" Voldemort asked as he motioned for Nagini, the huge snake arched up, and Voldemort gently rubbed the scales along the top of her skull.

"Yes, my lord." Severus asked in turn, unsure of what Voldemort was implying – or in what he wanted - which placed Severus on very dangerous grounds.

"I can't expect you to work here when your potion chambers are destroyed, do you think Dumbledore would allow you access to Hogwart's own potion chambers?" Lord Voldemort asked him, glancing into Severus dark eyes, Severus glanced quickly away, as if he was thinking of what Dumbledore would do – instead of openly avoiding the gaze of his "master".

"It is a possibility." Severus allowed softly, knowing that it was more then likely. Voldemort nodded, a small smile stretching across his deathly pale features – Severus dared not look at him then, for he feared remembering the man Voldemort had once been. Lord Voldemort did not like to remember what he had lost. It was dangerous to remind him – and a danger Severus hoped to avoid.

"Then you will continue your work for me there?" Voldemort questioned – though it was already implied – he liked to have everything very clear, so when things went wrong, you knew exactly who he would blame.

"If that is what you desire. What will you do about Mozenrath?" Severus agreed, only then asking his question in turn. Severus had no illusions in his place, for all that they might look like two friends chatting over tea by a fire – they were servant and master. Never would Severus make the mistake others had, while he dared not shatter the illusion of companionship Lord Voldemort had created around them – neither would he think he was irreplaceable.

To the Dark Lord, everyone had a use – if you outlived it, you were as good as dead. Or you wished you were.

"My boy…Severus, while he is partly under Dumbledore and his Order's sway, watch him. I need to learn how loyal he truly is…" Voldemort mused softly, raising a hand and waving it toward the door – with a clear dismissal, Severus took just enough time to leave with an air of one who had never regretted anything.

Truth, though, was a harder burden upon him.


	4. Lurch of a Heart

Click-taping of boots echoed on the stone streets as Severus walked along. His cloak swished at his heels dramatically, gaining the odd glance from one of them. Muggles. Severus didn't pay them any mind, and if he had later been questioned about what he – a former Death Eater, was doing walking among them, instead of scattering their ashes to the four winds, well, Severus would likely have sneered and made the scum who'd dared ask him such a question wet his pants.

Severus ducked his head down even more as his lips curled into a grim expression; one would likely be fool enough to call a smile, if, of course that individual suffered from an incurable optimism. Severus was learning that there were far too many such people who surrounded him on a day to day basis. That truth, he knew, was annoying, but necessary.

He needed them. Whatever came, if it was the death of the Dark Lord, or the survival of the magical world as it was – he needed to survive. To survive he needed others. He didn't have to like it to know it was the truth. Severus especially didn't have to like the fact that, either way, Mozenrath was necessary. To both sides, it was, he was learning, increasingly annoying to be in contact with such an individual and loath them.

Severus glanced up only when he felt the press of magic against his senses, it was almost stifling. He did, at least, have the pleasure of seeing the Potter boy jump at seeing him, hovering over the oven fixing what he supposed was lunch for Mozenrath. It was amusing, at least, to see the boy with a crush due to his own hero complex.

"What," Severus began dryly, "do you think your doing, Mr. Potter?" Harry held tightly to the tray, his face flushed as he avoided Severus' gaze, likely working hard to think of a way to explain that wouldn't result in Severus' thinking him anymore of an imbecile then Severus already thought he was.

"Just…fixing something to eat for…for Mozenrath." Harry muttered softly, making sure to avoid Severus' eyes. He had, at least, learned not to invite someone into his mind in such a way. There might be hope for him.

"I see." Severus drawled softly, Harry edged around him toward the staircase. It was at least amusing to see the boy so hesitant about his own actions and what Severus might do in response. Without a word, Severus followed him, for his own reasons. It was at least amusing to see Harry so tense, as if Severus might try something even within the sanctuary of the Order.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Mozenrath flicked a gloved finger, gazing at the mirror. It had been a priority to see how many things had changed and shifted from what he knew. Now, staring into the vast golden sand of a desert – he knew – there was nothing. They were dead.

All of the people he had wanted to rule. All of the people he had wanted to kill. Dead. He hadn't even the pleasure of knowing how, only that it was. Worse, he didn't think there was a way back. Magic, in this time was…tame. It lacked something that had always been, that he had taken for granted – that magic was unpredictable, it didn't matter if you were good or evil. Magic wasn't a mere tool in his time, though Mozenrath had used it as such – there was always a price to be made if magic was used.

This "magic" made him curl his lip and upturn his nose. This magic was weak. It gave. It was a slave to those who surrounded him. He felt it was useless, as it lacked the spark of danger and chance that he had thrived on unknowingly.

Three brisk knocks echoed through the room, their origin – obviously – the door. With a snap of his fingers the image of lifeless sand reflected properly – as mirrors should - only the interior of his room.

"Yes?" He called out, trying to keep his annoyance and impatience out of his voice. It was likely only the boy. Mozenrath could only raise his eyebrow when he found Harry with Severus closely on his heels. Mozenrath knew Severus, as he was one of the "Death Eaters" his "Master" kept. It was interesting to find he was the spy, but unsurprising. Such a man would survive, however he had to – that was merely in Severus' nature. To Mozenrath's bland look of amusement, Severus was quick to narrow his dark eyes with suspicion.

"I brought you some things…to…eat." Harry looked between Mozenrath and Severus, as it was clear they were paying more attention to each other then to him. Harry tried not to let it bother him as, with a motion of his wand, a table appeared by Mozenrath's bedside which he slid the plate of food onto.

"Thank you, Harry, I'm sure it will be…delicious." It may have been an accident that Harry felt Mozenrath's skin brush along his own as the other reached for the food Harry had laid out. It may have been so, but, somehow, Harry didn't think so. Cheeks burning, he avoided Severus' dark eyes, knowing the older man would either sneer or disapprove entirely.

"Indeed." Severus muttered softly, taking in the clothes the other now wore – and the glove which flexed seamlessly over his hand, as if made for him. Such would take a great deal of magic – magic Mozenrath was not supposed to have, and while Harry did possess that sort of sheer magic, the skill required was beyond the boy. It took years – if not a lifetime – to learn to weave magic into clothing. Minor things could be done, fixing length and color, but the talent displaying in the outfit Mozenrath wore was unlike anything Severus had seen before.

Harry, with only a lingering glace to Mozenrath, then chose – perhaps wisely, to leave. Mozenrath knew the boy would not go far, he did not trust Severus anymore then Mozenrath himself did.

He could not help but be smug, even as he bit into a bit of sliced fruit.

"The boy gave you clothing?" Severus asked, reaching for a reason to what he saw before him. Mozenrath merely nodded, agreeing. Though it also frustrated Severus, who knew that could not be the whole truth of the matter.

"With some adjustments on my part, it suits me – do you not agree?" With a tilt of his chin that he knew looked both devious and, oddly innocent, Mozenrath allowed Severus to see that amusement tugged at his lips.

"He did not give you the glove." Severus didn't reply to the bait. Or the invitation, as it came naturally to Mozenrath to be charming though giving into his moods would not give Severus the answers he sought. He needed to be intelligent, but, for once – he feared that Mozenrath were his match.

"No," Mozenrath murmured in wary agreement, "he did not." He made a show of licking the juice off his fingers before reaching for something else to eat. If it had any impression upon Severus, the other did not show it.

"Who did, Mozenrath?" Severus asked slowly, as if dealing with a child.

"My…master…" It was a lie, of sorts, though Mirage controlled his fate far more fully then any action on the part of Lord Voldemort. At his answer, Severus' eyes had widened, and then narrowed suspiciously.

"And I suppose it was your master who gives you the free reign to the ruin my research?" Mozenrath glanced quickly away to hide the shimmering amusement within his own dark eyes. Xerxes was indeed being faithful to his mission, Mozenrath felt almost…proud of his little flying eel.

"I do not know what you mean." Another lie and they both knew it. With a snarl, Severus pivoted and left – after, of course, slamming the door. After such a dramatic display, Mozenrath could not help but laugh. He had fooled no one – then again, they could prove nothing. Frustrating them was just as much fun as pointing out the flaws in their so called logic.

Logic based on a magic Mozenrath found all too easy to bend to his will.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Xerxes, wearing the shape of his master – Mozenrath, giggled softly to himself in the dark corner. His master, he knew, would be pleased with the mischief he had done. After destroying what Xerxes knew to be the research rooms that had played a part in bringing his master back to life under the enslavement of Nagini's "master", he had scared off the chore doers who scrambled about cleaning up the mess he had left. The mess Xerxes knew his master would not want cleaned up. It would, for now, remain.

If, by chance, they managed to undo the mischief he had caused, he knew he only had to do it again. Sooner or later they would give up and let it be as he had ruined it. There were other, little things, he had done. Things that made them a weak mess of a whole, like an Army, Xerxes knew they could not work as a whole when they bickered among each other.

It had been Xerxes who had pointed this out to Mozenrath, when they had observed the pathetic guards of Agrabah. Soon, when given the order, Xerxes would start to slowly poison them. It would be a delight to keep them wondering who among them did such a thing, to stir their suspicions. Their doubts, fears – all these Xerxes would use.

So caught up in his delight he did not notice the snake eyes that watched him. Nagini's tongue flicked as she scented the strange creature that had entered her domain. A soft slide of scales was all that was needed to alert Xerxes to her presence. He whirled about, shrieking in surprise when Nagini hissed, soft and filled with deadly intent.

Negini lunged forward and Xerxes didn't have time to whimper as he slammed his eyes shut trying to think of a form to take that would make her regret attacking. It was taking too long to feel her fangs sink into his flesh, for her body to curl about his in a crushing embrace. Xerxes peeked open an eye.

Standing in front of him, her fist around the struggling serpent was Mirage. Xerxes giggled softly under his breath, slithering up into the air to shoulder height, gazing at Nagini's strangled form in smug delight. Then he wondered what Mirage would want by killing Nagini for him. His delight faded, but he still felt smugness linger as he made lazy circles about the dead snake.

"What Mirage wants with Xerxes?" He finally asked, unable to keep from being suspicious. Mirage smiled slowly, showing her gleaming teeth, and Xerxes shivered to feel the danger about her.

"A guarantee..." Mirage murmured softly, her eyes narrowed on the dead body of Nagini, she let the body drop, sneering. Her golden gaze locked with Xerxes, deadly as his Mozenrath. Cat-like pupils glanced about in the place she found herself within in disgust. Mirage shook her head, and when Xerxes blinked, she was gone and all was left was a shimmering pool of water.

"That you will, when the time comes…protect this boy. As I protected you…" It was not Xerxes reflection he saw gleaming in the pool, but a boy – black haired and green eyed, with a lightning bolt scar marring his forehead. Xerxes tilted his head, finding it fascinating that Mirage was so interested with this mortal boy.

Wondering just what it was that connected the two.


	5. Within These Seeds Stirs Darkness

"What," an old man stepped from the shadows which had held only darkness a moment before, "are you plotting now, Mirage?" Feline like, she hissed a greeting, proving she was not at all pleased to see him. He only smiled the expression odd with his eyes covered with a bandage, something like amusement crossing his features at the unwilling proof that he had startled her.

"Nothing that needs the likes of _your_ meddling, Phasir..." Mirage half growled, her clawed fingers still bloody from snake blood. She sneered at him, and then looked aside, for the sight of him made her ache with remembered pain. She would never forgive him what he had done.

"I am a seer, Mirage, I know of the boy. He is yours. Why did you hide him away? Did you think I would scorn him?" Phasir asked then with a heavy sigh, Mirage took a step away from him, waving a hand provided a viewing image, the edges of it rippled with something like lightning.

"Not everything is about the likes of you, Phasir, he is _mine_ to do with what I will." There was softness in her eyes as she looked to the image, three children huddled together, exchanging hugs and laughs. They were friends, but Mirage only had eyes for the darkest haired boy. Phasir though, remembered what he and Mirage had once been, with another at their side….

"He is not only yours, now, Mirage. He is his own. He is coming into his power. Soon he will find out the truth of what he is – what he will be. What will you do then?" Phasir asked of her, Mirage only smirked, for to this at least she had an answer.

"I will teach him." She declared with narrowed eyes and tilted chin, daring Phasir to argue with her words. He did not, for a long while he gazed at the dark haired boy, as if he saw something of his future. Mirage feared this, and waited with her grey tail tip twitching with impatience.

"Chaos will meddle with him." Phasir warned, Mirage snarled, showing a bit of her sharp teeth. It was clear the comment did not please her. Something like fear showed for a moment, before she snapped her fingers. The image of the dark haired boy, eyes like her, own was gone.

"He meddles with us all." She declared with bitter irony. Phasir then flinched, remembering the past which still stung at them both for all that it had been ages since then and now. Phasir only then frowned.

"You have sent him a protector." Mirage's look was smug, even as she nodded. Phasir was not at all pleased. His arms folded over his chest, as he seemed to demand further explanation. Mirage did not begrudge him the information, knowing his actions would be determined by what she told him; or did not tell him.

"Yes. Mozenrath." Phasir's pale skin grew paler still. Mirage knew then that for all her power, she did not know everything, while Phasir had glimpses. It was not a gift she grudged of him. He was equal parts used and wielder of his gift. In Mirage's mind, those with power were not used by it though Phasir was powerful, he was the exception.

"Foolish, you will attract Chaos with your meddling; we must move now, early, or the boy will not have the chance, prey I am not too late, Mirage." She was reminded in times like these of how things used to be, when he and she had been partners. Her heart ached, and with worry she swept the feelings away, taking the moment to watch him leave before she pulled another image of what was happening.

Phasir was there, as was Harry. If things were not so dire, she would have been amused. Chaos had not yet dealt his hand, they hand time, they need not rush. Not yet.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Severus knew when the Order started to arrive, faint "pops" of displaced air, chatter as they saw Harry and greeted the boy, unavoidably speaking with him as they made their way to what used to be the Black foyer, murmuring among each other of things – often of things that had nothing to do with the Order.

With the door to Mozenrath's room firmly shut behind him, he allowed himself to relax, if only for the moment necessary to gather his wits and face the Order with the truth of _what_ they had taken in as a 'guest'. Many thought that, although a former Wizard of the ancient past, they had nothing to fear from him. That, Severus knew now, was absolutely wrong – this man was likely as dangerous now as he had been wherever he had came from.

He had as well as taunted Severus over the truth of what he had done, though Severus had no proof. Somehow he was capable of magic – of changing his attire, perhaps even more that he had not seen. Somehow it was possible, and Severus was determined to find out _how_. More importantly, he was determined to find out how to mimic such power. Dumbledore and his Order did not need to know of that, though.

When Severus reached the bottom of the staircase, most of the Order had settled, with Harry and his group clustered among the Order. Severus took the seat furthest from them, though they thought this normal on his part. Severus was not one to be social; he had no reason to be. He was here as a spy, though neither side were sure he didn't lie when it suited him; he also had other reasons they – save Dumbledore – had no guess to.

He was here to protect Harry, for both sides, for now, wanted him alive. Severus had personal motives as well, but chiefly he dared not dwell on them. When the Order had settled, like so many flock of birds, Dumbledore addressed the issues the Order had gathered to hear. It was a very short list.

Purposely vague, this way if Severus reported something of the Order, Voldemort would see into his mind and know it for truth. Many of them were (among them Potter and his gaggle of followers) sure this was a meeting in truth, but Severus knew better these 'Order gatherings' was for the sake of Severus. Perhaps it was also to strengthen those seen in their shared unity, but Severus had thought he alone would remain largely unaffected.

"Firstly, what have we learned of our guest?" Dumbledore asked, looking between Severus and Harry, the only ones who had met their 'guest' while he was awake. Severus saw Dumbledore's eyes linger on the boy, shimmering with power – it likely looked to 'twinkle' – and Severus gritted his teeth when the boy smiled even as bit by bit Dumbledore unraveled the boys mind.

"He's nice enough, though odd. He has this glove – but it must have been in the closet. I haven't seen any sign of anything but small magic." Harry believed the words he said, and Severus shook his head. It was clear that for all his suspicions they were best unvoiced among the Order, it was Dumbledore's oh-so-subtle way of making that apparent. Must not fret the flock that the golden goose was ensnared by a black swan…

"Severus, what news do you have?" Dumbledore asked of him, Severus only then stirred, eyes flicking to Harry. Interestingly, the boy flinched, avoiding his dark gaze. His friends on either side glared at him for all they were worth. It was almost enough to make him amused, even in the face of what he considered his lost treasure.

"My potions lair in _his_ stronghold has been destroyed. At this point there are only rumors and whispers of the perpetrator. Voldemort wishes to have Mozenrath at his side once more, but has not yet asked me to act." Severus finished, carefully avoiding the gazes of anyone who sought to capture his eyes.

"That poor boy…is there any luck, Dumbledore, finding some of the ancient desert scrolls that could free him?" Molly was the one to ask, for though Mozenrath might have been buried for the greater part of a thousand years or more, it seemed not to matter. Mozenrath looked no older then her elder son, and so in her eyes would be protected, though she did not like that Voldemort had had his claws in the boy.

"No, but I have asked an old friend for help, everyone, this is Phasir." Dumbledore gestured to the man, and only then did Severus and the others seem able to take notice of him. He was dressed in grey robes, a tattered shawl rested over his shoulders; it may once have been white but was as old as he appeared. Most oddly were the bandages over where his eyes would be; his white hair and beard seemed allowed to grow as they willed.

"What happened to your eyes?" Ron asked boldly, instead of insulted, the old man seemed amused. His head tilted to the side, as if he heard something they could not, and he smiled slowly at the 'Golden Trio'.

"An old wound, I assure you. However, do not fear for me, I am quite capable." Severus had the feeling Phasir, for all he spoke to Ron, was watching Harry. He didn't think what was meant to hamper sight did any such thing. Though if he had the _Sight_ , why had Dumbledore ask his help only now? It was a mystery, and one Severus did not like not knowing.

"Pardon sirs, but how is a blind man going to lead us to the scrolls that could free Mozenrath?" Mundungus, normally unquestioningly loyal to Dumbledore in all things, seemed not able to hold onto his tongue. He was young though, not even twice the age of Harry and his friends, which was unusual enough in the Order. Added to his disfavoring characteristics as a thief who stole and smuggled for the black market – that being the dark, or to muggles 'in the know' outright.

"I am old boy, old enough to remember when your Ministry found the desert secrets, and know where they are kept. They would not have been moved, but they will be hard to…fetch from the hands that clasp them. Something I'm sure a little thief would understand…" There was a slow smile from the old man as he looked directly in Mundungus' direction.

"Phasir is here not only for that task, he will also be checking to make sure the any control Voldemort wields over Mozenrath is kept to a minimum." Phasir nodded agreeing to Dumbledore's words, seeming to take on the look of a old man, tired and not at all filled with the burning power Severus had felt brush his mind only a moment ago. Phasir had not so much as looked toward him.

"So he is as good as a muggle now?" Hermione asked of the old men, her gaze straying to Phasir only once or twice. Severus could be almost proud of her, for his obvious attempts at strangling her outright curiosity at everything to the point where she questioned had paid off. That was not the way to go about being a witch or wizard unless you wanted to die young. Such things screamed of muggles and their like.

"Yes." Neither old man had said as much, but Severus got the feeling that they wanted the Order to think so. Those who were wary of Mozenrath settled into calm, sure that the golden goose would not fall for someone without magic, least of all one who had once held power with their enemy. Severus was not so sure.

"Of course, now that summer is coming swiftly, our guest will get a chance to prove his use. Harry is, of course, going back to his muggle guardians. Mozenrath can protect him there, for he would have knowledge muggles do not, but he could not use his power for harm." Dumbledore declared, surprising many, but Severus took careful notice that Phasir had kept his expression neutral, though Severus sensed he did not approve. It was something to keep in mind.


	6. Power Pulls From Within

Mozenrath had no interest in their 'meetings' of Order. He was intrigued by both Severus and Harry; they had a power he had glimpsed in few others. Then again, in his world – his time – those with magic did not gather together like prey, for fear that their power would be taken along with their lives.

He was not so interested in them and their like to squander his newly won power. For once he was glad that once the flesh price was paid in one life with a soul, one did not need to pay twice. Mozenrath felt Xerxes call out to him, and opened the portal. His servant slithered through, looking pensive and worried at the news he held.

"What do you have to tell me, Xerxes?" Mozenrath asked, the flying eel slithered about his shoulders, seeking comfort and contract; both of which Mozenrath could give him freely without fear of it being used against him.

"Mirage save Xerxes from a pet snake of the Dark Lord we hates. She wants Xerxes to protect this child, does master know him?" Xerxes shifted his image, it was doll-like small but still held a likeness to one who Mozenrath would know even if he forgot all else, his newly appointed charge, Harry Potter.

Mozenrath knew well why Mirage might seek out Xerxes and gain favor with his familiar, it was her way of tying up loose ends. He could not rid himself of Harry if it became inconvenient to 'keep' him, at least not without an obvious effort which Mirage would likely sense. This was, indeed, interesting….

"Yes. He is one and the same as the boy I have been bid to protect. This is forgivable, Xerxes. For now, protect his life. Mirage is likely going to do something about our… _situation_ , soon." Mozenrath assured, and Xerxes ducked his head in a likeness of a nod.

"How sly you are, to guess at my moves, Mozenrath. Take care that you do not play for keeps." Mirage had appeared in his mirror, and it somehow did not surprise him as much as he knew it ought to. Instead, he gave her a smile, keeping his eyes lowered least she would see a threat when he did not mean to offer one.

"Mirage..." Mozenrath greeted with melodious tones induced to sooth. He had never seen her so…ruffled. She hid it well.

"You are right though. I fear things have gotten…interesting." Mirage sneered slightly at her own words, clawed fingers tapping a rhythm on her arm.

"These wizards will move the boy, and you will go with him. There is someone new among them, called Phasir, he is not a friend, though for now our goals are one and the same. He is powerful and ancient, like me, do not cross him." That was rung with insistence, nestled within her words was a threat, Mozenrath felt then that this was her personal enemy – like he and Aladdin. _That_ was interesting; perhaps even a clue to why the boy was important to the two of them.

Mozenrath was not fool enough to say any of this, instead he only nodded. It seemed the only agreement Mirage wished to see. They exchanged a look, the sort on trades with another who has power where there was realization. Mirage did not hold all the power, and she knew this.

Then she was gone. Mozenrath had time only to shake his head, and then there was a knock on the door. He was becoming to become annoyed with the interference. Did these wizards and witches know nothing of privacy? In days gone by he could have gone weeks – _years_ – without seeing anyone alive and been content!

"Come in." He called, for he didn't think that they would go away if he did not answer. Likely they would break in; fearing harm had come to him. He could only grit his teeth to see Harry – who he did not mind – and two little duckling followers, a red haired boy, his hair hurt Mozenrath's eyes. Then the other, a girl with hair so untamed he itched to think of fleas or lice. Both did not like him, he knew, they had come here for Harry.

"How are you taking the captivity, Mozenrath?" Harry asked, not unkindly, he seemed instead to want to make this seem somewhat amusing. His humor lacked something. Mozenrath smiled all the same, glancing to his shoulders, Xerxes had, of course, changed his shape into something they would not take notice of. Instead of a flying eel without wings, they saw him wearing a black shawl.

"Not well, I am afraid." Mozenrath told him, settling once more onto the bed, legs crossing as he put elbow to knee and hand to cheek. He tried his best to look forlorn and disgruntled. It was, not surprisingly, easy. Both of Harry's friends looked disapproving, Mozenrath found he didn't care a bit.

"Well, I've got news. We are going to my…ah, relatives' house." Harry seemed to sense the unease between his friends and Mozenrath, though he was at an obvious loss at how to bridge it. Mozenrath knew all to well that some things could not be helped, most especially when both parties didn't care to get along.

"All of us?" Mozenrath doubted very much that this relative would be pleased to have four juveniles under one roof (he was very much aware he was 'young' in the eyes of wizards and witches both, he was used to such thinking, he would after all live into his hundreds) worse was that they did not get along.

"Ah, no, just you and me." Harry flushed his cheeks reddening and eyes going to study his shoes, Mozenrath couldn't help the slow smile that spread over his lips. The girls lips tightened, and her eyes screamed her thoughts. She _knew_ he was flirting. The red head clenched his fists; he wanted to do bodily harm. They knew well the hold he had over Harry, though they would stand by him – protectors – if only to annoy him.

" _Splendid_." The word was drawled, elegant, though he was smiling at the two teens that flanked Harry. He had now the reason why they had not even given him the chance to speak before learning to hate him. They were here to say goodbye to Harry, to give their dear friend over to Mozenrath's tender care, only then to fret until they had been sent word. Mozenrath _almost_ felt bad for them.

That didn't stop him from flaunting the facts, he stood, his arm wrapped around Harry's shoulders as he let the boy lead him down the staircase. His silent friends (really, Mozenrath was somewhat impressed with this, he had met more talkative dead…) trailing reluctantly after. He glimpsed Severus, and just to annoy the other man, he winked as he was led outside.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry knew all too well how it felt to be led about as if on a leash. It was something Harry never thought he'd get used to. Mozenrath, though, seemed the opposite. He seemed to _expect_ them to lead him to and fro. Maybe it was something Voldemort had done to him to make him take things at ease, for all he had a wicked tongue, he wasn't that bad. He had never so much as raised his voice, or reached for a wand that would not answer.

Mozenrath had his oddities though, he wore only one glove, and the shawl mismatched his other fine purple and black clothing. The trip was one that could have been remembered for it's drawn out silence and tense words, if not for Mozenrath making an effort. He was insatiably curious about his 'relations', and asked what others only guessed at.

Harry thought that, perhaps, Ron and Hermione had learned more about him, and how he had grown up, in that time then in all the times they had spoken in Hogwarts of his family. At the end of it, they had only stressed for Harry to take care, and to contact them when he needed them. They didn't even get a chance to come to the door, before the car (it looked like a something you could race, though it moved as slow as a limo) left the two of them on the curb. It was only then that Harry worried about what his Aunt and Uncle would think of Mozenrath, or what Dudley might say or do.

Harry didn't get a chance to suggest anything, for when he had turned to speak to Mozenrath, he found himself alone. Mozenrath was already at the door, knocking, it was a knock that could not be thought of as rude, though it was persistent. He could not imagine Mozenrath learning the like with Voldemort, it passed then as one more question Harry did not think he'd ever get a real answer to.

"Yes? What do _you_ want?" It was possibly the worst person to answer the door that Harry could imagine, his uncle. Already having seen Harry, and glanced to Mozenrath's clothing, his face was becoming a worrying purple, Harry hurried forward knowing uncle Vernon would want them out of sight as swiftly as possible.

"It does not matter what _I_ want, sir. It is only what I have been tasked to do." Mozenrath spoke, as he did so Harry felt somewhat hurt, wondering if that was what Mozenrath truly thought of him. He did not have long to worry before things seemed to become clear. Vernon's eyes narrowed, but Mozenrath merely smiled in a way that was very put-upon. Then he did something else that Harry only remembered him doing a handful of times in Harry's presence. He smiled.

"I see, I see, do come in, you seem the right sort, never mind your, ah, _clothes_." Vernon sneered then though only a little, and Mozenrath sniffed, as if he too were distressed by his state of dress. Harry, slack jawed, wondered when Mozenrath had had the chance to be spell his uncle – this was most unlike him. Vernon put his meaty hand on Mozenrath's shoulder, it was then that Harry knew this was no illusion or dream. Mozenrath had flinched, with gritted teeth that did not mar his purposely pleasant expression, Mozenrath moved into the house, leaving Harry to follow after.

"Petunia, love, we've a visitor, heat something up – he's brought _the boy_ , but our guest looks half starved. Must have been a prisoner of _them_ , eh?" Vernon laughed, but when he saw Mozenrath look away, his smile faded and his eyes held some pity.

"Poor sod, don't worry, we'll see to it you get the proper sort of care here. You and the boy can share his room, you don't, ah, do magic do you?" Vernon asked, only then nervous, because he had seen the nice clothes, but no wand. Mozenrath shook his head, and Vernon seemed relieved. Harry for the first time in his life wondered if Vernon was gay, and this was some sort of coming out. That wasn't it though, so Harry could only watch, still speechless. It was just as well.

' _How does he_ do _that_?' Harry wondered, baffled by all this, it seemed he had stepped out of his world and into a stranger one. Harry watched, arms folded and leaning against the wall as Mozenrath was catered to and chatted with. It was only then that Harry noticed the silver-look to the once tattered and brown glove.

Mozenrath seemed to sense he was being watched, and looked up to see Harry. Their eyes met, and Harry could have sworn he heard a word – just one – that whispered into his mind like something slithering out of the dark. ' _Charm'_ …

Harry didn't care how it was done, it was a damned unnatural miracle, but he wasn't about to stop it. He wondered how it was that the Ministry hadn't sensed the magic Mozenrath was using, and then he remembered Mozenrath had been born ages past. It was something of a relief. Life, would, at least, be a little easier without his relatives pestering him. He even, miracles of miracles, got to eat some ham sandwich before being sent off to bed with Mozenrath.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Waken." Harry had always found things tended to happen – seemingly just because they could – when things had been going well. This was just another proof positive by his way of thinking. He opened blurrily eyes to the old man Dumbledore had introduced as Phasir, in that moment, looking into the blind fold that covered a old mans face, Harry knew this man was more then what he appeared to be.

Mozenrath was already awake, having taken half of Harry's bed, he was rigid and watching the old man with wary eyes. Harry did not think much of the fact that Mozenrath had slept with the glove covering his hand, though the shawl was changed into a scarf.

"Phasir…" Mozenrath murmured, it did not sound like a question, it sounded like an acknowledgement of equals on uneven footing. Phasir bobbed his head, a grim little smile spread over his lips. He gestured for them to rise, obediently, Harry and Mozenrath did so without question, though the look Mozenrath wore promised revenge if this was without good cause.

"It is time, we must move swiftly, least he catch us unaware." Phasir told them, Harry noticed Mozenrath dragging his school trunk toward him, and motioning for him to fetch his things under the floor boards. He did so; disturbed for the first time that he had given Hedwig over to Ron to care for. She might have given him more warning, though he had the feeling that Phasir had not come here by ordinary means, though Harry knew the blood wards still clung about this place.

It was a question then, of power and how much Phasir had, to be so unaffected. Harry gathered his things; Phasir touched the doorknob, while Mozenrath watched with wary eyes. Again Harry got the feeling they were not friends, but something had drawn them together to work toward one goal. Somehow Harry was entangled in that goal, though he did not know how that could be so.

All that he could carry he did, while Mozenrath settled the matter of what to keep and what to leave in his school trunk by burdening himself with the rest. Phasir opened the door, and it was opened to the dark, at first Harry thought it was because of the night, but when he moved through the threshold he knew this was not the case. This was something else – a passageway made within moments, to somewhere else. Sand grabbed at his feet, sinking him down, though Mozenrath took a surprised but welcoming breath, seeming to relax.

"What is this?" Harry demanded, though he had the awful feeling he knew, Mozenrath saw this place as home. He would know. Even with magic, Harry had known certain things not possible; it seemed to him that Phasir was a law of magic unto himself. Eerily, he faced Harry, making no illusion to the fact that – somehow _despite_ the bandages- Phasir saw him very well.

"I keep my word, boy." Phasir offered no other explanation, in a way Harry knew that no other sort of reason would be given. It was as simple and as mind numbingly complicated as Phasir told him.

"I did not ask to be protected!" Harry argued, for he knew then that no one said as much, but that was the truth of it. Phasir seemed to grow distant, as if he had not expected his outburst. Mozenrath gave them both a look of pity, though he had not said a word. He, Harry suspected, was in on it – had been so since the beginning, probably. He tried to find a reason – a why – but could think of nothing. He was frightened, overwhelmed, in a world and time he knew nothing of. He was…lost.

"You did not have to; someone did that _for_ you…" Phasir, Harry knew in that moment, would never speak plainly when he could hint or suggest a thing instead. It made him mad. Phasir tensed up then, and Mozenrath stirred with eyes narrowed, the old man seemed to sag then, when he relaxed.

"…I, never mind, boy, know only that I am sorry for your losses, though not for what I have done." Phasir murmured his voice very far away. A somewhere else that Harry feared was his time. What could have happened there that would make the old man so desolate? Harry knew then that he wasn't being protected from Voldemort; the likes of these two could swat Voldemort aside with a sneeze. No, this was something else, something Harry did not know. He was running, now lost – because of a person or being he had never met.

 _Why_? Harry did not get to ask, for Phasir was simply gone. Sand and sky stretched out before them in every direction, Harry could make no sense of this wasteland. Mozenrath though, seemed calm enough.

"What did he mean by that, Mozenrath?" Harry asked, his voice soft, only now did he worry over Ron and Hermione. Even, let him never know it – Severus. What could be done, though, when whatever had happened – or was happening? – had left him stranded in a time that he was stranger to.

"I do not know." Mozenrath confessed to him, quickly patting his shoulder in what comfort he could offer; for his part Harry felt as if his heart was weighted. As if he was sinking, and bit by bit he was dying with the not knowing. Then something awful occurred to him. What if Mozenrath intended to leave him behind?

"What will happen to me now?" Harry questioned feeling weak, the words hollow. Mozenrath moved, and Harry turned to look at him fully, his brown glove was glowing, this time it was an odd sort of blue-purple. Mozenrath smiled slowly, and there was no uncertainly in him. Harry felt some assurance, some stability, return to him. Then the scarf became a flying eel, its maw a yawning with too long teeth, and a wicked look to its black eyes. Harry couldn't make a sound, could not help but step back. Mozenrath surely saw it, but he was unconcerned, in fact he patted it soothingly, as if it was a pet.

"That, I do know." Mozenrath told him surely, Harry saw the blue light with its dancing purple flame flare, felt the touch of a firm arm about his waist – of a chest against his – only then did he feel the sickening knot in his navel unravel.

It as if he was dying, and could feel and know and sense so much of what he had only had impressions of. It was power. Then the knot tightened tauntingly, and Harry felt jolted in place. He staggered, but Mozenrath caught him. Harry had the fleeting thought that he liked being caught by Mozenrtath before he couldn't seem to keep his eyes open.


	7. What He Must Not Know Of

Severus settled into his own home, it was a rare moment of peace. Dumbledore did not need him, and until his own chambers were restored within the Dark Lord's stronghold, Severus was of little use to him. Severus did not know where Potter was, this was on purpose on Dumbledore's orders. If he did not know, he could not be harassed ('tortured') for the information. It was for as much his safety as Harry.

So he took his moment with pleasure, he was not relaxed, but he wasn't seeing things so direly. He had bathed, and chose only to drape himself in a robe. It was not a formal one, for it was frayed and old, patched in places. This had been a gift – one of a handful – from Lily. It would not matter to Severus if it was but a rag, he would find some comfort in it all the same.

With quill in one hand and a spare bit of parchment in another, Severus jotted down notes in no clear order. He wrote what came to him. Corrections in potion care and handling, experiments with established sable potions, and the like. He did not expect to be interrupted, but interrupted he was.

The fire gave off a blue light, and it proved to be his only warning, for in the next moment the head of Malfoy the senior formed from flickering flame. He did not look to think this an informal visit, in fact, if Severus was at all truthful, his 'old friend' looked…worried.

"Severus, I'm glad I caught you. I apologize for circumstance, you understand, but this concerns your suspicions of the Dark Lord's companion. The boy, Mozenrath." If those words had been scripted, they could not have caught Severus' attention more then what they had. He felt his peace shattered, and straitened, looking dire and serious.

"What of him?" Severus demanded his tone sharp. He thought of the boy he was to protect, with only Mozenrath in a muggle household. Malfoy seemed relived if only because he seemed to be taken seriously.

"He hates us, Sev', loathes us even. He won't be as easily controlled as the Dark Lord thinks. I don't know how he'd do it, the Dark Lord holds tightly to his power, he should have none at all…but he will cross us." Malfoy warned, lips pressed together and his eyes pensive with thoughts. Severus did not snap at him not to call him 'Sev', for he his eyes had widened at Malfoy's last words, he had thought the boy was to test him…but it seemed he was wrong. He had to be sure.

"You're telling me that the Dark Lord…has not given Mozenrath some power?" Severus asked carefully, tensing as if he was watched by unseen eyes. Malfoy frowned and focused on him only then.

"Not in the least. What aren't you saying, Seveus?" Malfoy demanded of him, his voice like steel. Trying not to bend while faced with Severus, whose will was like a force of nature. It was an advantage he used fully in this moment. He had to be believed.

"I have seen him use magic; he has enough to change his clothing to suit his own tastes." Severus thought he might have sensed a trap, if he had only followed his suspicions sooner. It was too late for regrets, they had to act now.

"What should we do?" Malfoy asked, seeming to be lost without his direction.

"You go to our Lord; I will see that this reaches Dumbledore. Maybe we still have time to move the boy…." Annoyance flashed in Malfoy's eyes, but he nodded at Severus' dismissal as the fire went out. Severus did not see this. He had already left his own rooms.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Malfoy took sweeping strides toward where he knew Voldemort would be. It was partly instinct – partly common sense. Voldemort wanted those who served him to know where he was, so that they felt his presence – and knew he watched.

Malfoy was in no hurry to tell his Lord of what he suspected, though he knew it would be something that lingers in his mind; if he went near Voldemort, the elder wizard would suspect. It was much easier in the long run to tell what had went wrong, have a plan, rather then delay the news and encourage the wrath of his Lord.

That was ordinarily – this was something else entirely. Malfoy knew that things would not go as he hoped the moment he set foot in the chamber of the Dark Lord and saw the stiff body of the dead snake Nagini. Voldemort was still, his eyes on his long time familiar though his held his hands clasped in front of him fingers entangled though his chin rested on his hands.

He did not stir, though he must have known that Malfoy was present.

It did not bid well.

"She died last night, did you know?" There was no accusation, no blame. It was a fact – but it demanded an answer as well. Malfoy standing before his lord as only a Death Eater dared, bowed his head with respect as he answered.

"I swear to you, my Lord, I did not." Malfoy thought it was just as well that his voice did not quiver, and his stance did not betray him, even so he kept his gaze low. It did not bid well to tell the Dark Lord what he already knew, a fierce rage burned in his eyes – something had happened, something neither he nor Snape were not aware of. It was just as well that Malfoy would be the first to know, seeing as Snape had chosen the easier course.

"The boy is gone as well, I can not find him this world – neither has he passed on." Voldemort mused with his words, rolling him over his tongue, as if he was not quite sure how he thought he should react to finding things had changed. Malfoy tensed only a little. If Mozenrath was gone – it was likely Harry Potter was as well. Why hadn't Snape already known? Could he have hidden his knowledge, wanting only for Malfoy to walk into a trap?

"What are you saying, my Lord?" Malfoy asked, daring to glance upward. Glistening ruby that shifted like flickering flames met his eyes, and held his gaze. He was aware his mind was looked though, for the feeling was as familiar as having read a book one had almost forgotten. It was an invasion, so openly done, it could have been taken as a high offence – Malfoy let it side.

"Someone has stolen them, Malfoy – I intend to find out whom, and then they will wish they had died long before crossing me." It did not surprise Malfoy that the Dark Lord had so easily adsorbed the information and planned to use it to his own advantage. His arm tinged with remembered pain, as his mind caught up to what was happening. Voldemort might wish to use his Mark to summon the others; it was supposed to be an honor – though one which was dreaded.

"Yes, my Lord, do you wish to summon the Death Eaters?" Malfoy asked, though he did not like the thought of the answer, it had to be asked. Voldemort smiled slowly, as if he read his reluctance and was amused by it. Malfoy had been careful to avoid his Lord's gaze and tenseness only a little – remembering that with reluctance for what was supposed to be an honor might add to the toll of pain. Malfoy tensed his shoulders as he waited for the answer.

"No, Malfoy, this requires the hand of something...specialized." Voldemort mused, Malfoy did not show relief – for the last time his Lord had told him such a thing Malfoy had plucked five of the newly recruited followers to play as sacrifices. Killing those who opposed them was one thing – killing their own was another. There had almost been mutiny.

"My Lord?" Some shiver of fear showed in his tones, though the Dark Lord was kind enough not to bring it to attention. Voldemort stood then, coming forward to stand in front of him – it was a symbolic of equals, a manipulation. Still, Malfoy could not help but betray his fierce dignity as he stood straighter.

"Just as I summoned the boy, I think I shall something else. Its name in the ancient times of the sand scrolls was Kat-Ba-Khaos. We would translate to one word; _Chaos_." Voldemort purred the word, as if it was touchable – tangible. Shadows shuddered, though Malfoy convinced himself that it was a flicker of magical fire – or a reaction to the presence of his Lord's magical nature.

"Yes, my Lord." Malfoy acknowledged with a bow of his head, a curtain of it fell forward, obscuring his features. Voldemort placed a hand on his shoulder, what was meant to be a gesture of kindness was twisted as the grip tightened to the point of sharp pain. Malfoy did not flinch, only gritted his teeth, it would pass.

"See that I am not disturbed." It was a threat well understood, Malfoy kept his face lowered, until Voldemort had passed. Only then did he leave, knowing a dismissal when he heard one.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Blood spewed from a stinging wound; it dripped – once – twice – thrice, into a little silver platter with tilted edges. It had been engraved with ancient words – of warning, of death – of curses that would come to pass. Red eyes flinched only once, to the body of a serpent, coiled in a way that its tail entered its mouth. They hardened, determined.

Just because one could bring back the dead, Voldemort had learned, did not mean that they could be controlled. His spells had not held, they had been powerful – old – but not as ancient as the one whom he had brought back. He would not make that mistake again. This time he would not fail.

Words he did not understand spilled from his lips, like serpent whispers – but not so clear. Smoke spilled out of the silver bowl – it was dark, seeping black – tinged with the lightest of purple and hints of blue. Voldemort, in his eagerness, forgot the syllable for binding.

It would bring death.

"Well, well, mortal flesh and mortal bone – though the soul is shattered like bits of broken glass. Silly fool…to try to _command_ and **bind** me…" Gold eyes glared though the smoke, it swirled about, as if something moved, but nothing could be seen. Paw prints, moist, as if it was fog damp and not smoke, appeared on the floor.

Voldemort knew then that he had overstretched his reach. He would likely die.

"Wait – are you not _curious_ of why I dared?" Voldemort spoke, knowing that he took a chance, for whatever this was, and it was not likely to spare him for his offence. Not for long. He had no illusions to that, though he willed only to manipulate one final thing – that his death would doom whoever had crossed him.

"A little, I admit – I am easily intrigued." There was a hint of a tail, and something fluttered like wings.

"I summoned someone long dead, and gave him as a spy to my enemies." Voldemort rushed his words, hoping they would catch the attention of this being. Images flicked in the smoky black now – of Harry, of Mozenrath – of…what he knew. Impossible things, it had seemed – for anyone save himself to know.

"You tell old news, be wary – I grow _bored_ …." As if to point this out, a new image flicked into view – of Nagini, alive – and a flying eel that Voldemort had never seen before. Nagini was about to kill the eel when something…odd, appeared, it looked like a cat, though moved like a woman – that one had killed Nagini, and likely had a hand in taking the one he had brought back from the dead….

"What of her? I have never seen her." Voldemort did not what to die without knowing a hint to her identity.

"Oh, she…? She is friend – though sometimes foe – younger then I, less and more." The words made little sense, but Voldemort understood what they could mean…

"Why would she have an interest in the boy?" Voldemort asked quickly, as the images changed like a kaleidoscope fractured and bending, some being broken.

"Why would I care to know? How dull, you and this world and time is; no mystery – nothing of interest, save a little war, a little strife – not much life. Boring, boring, purging burning rain would be more interesting…" It was a whispered promise, Voldemort felt a bidding terror – he was losing this beings interest, its attention had strayed from him, now that it said strange things as if his world as if it was only one among many others. It stuck him then how much he didn't know – how much he would question forever more if he died.

"What of the boy – and that other?" Voldemort asked franticly, the gold eyes narrowed, displeased. Slowly a body appeared – that of a cat, waist high, and its fur was tinged blue though it shifted with darkness, about its forearms was gold bands – and around his neck was a symbol that Voldemort could not quite make out though it was embedded into gold like the bands about the forearms. The tip of his tail flicked back and forward, drawing attention to three darker bands along it until the third enveloped the tail. Its ears were long and slender – almost elf-like. The tips of them the same shade of changing blue. Black fur at its chin formed something like a goatee.

"How dull you are! How obsessed! This world will burn, and die – dry, like a little bit of paper, crinkled dust. Perhaps a dying spark, like a last firecracker, will make my doing worth the effort of burning…" It smiled, showing fangs and its true unpleasant nature. The body faded, till only the smile was left.

Voldemort smelt smoke and charred cinder, impossibly, from within; it was burning rain as Chaos had promised. His magic was no defense, for this fire burnt wand and magic, and burned too quick – and would not be put out.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry woke feeling as if he should be coughing – hacking on smoke he could not see, from flames that were not there. Then he saw something that should be impossible – a flying eel, watching him with something like a cruel amusement.

"Who… _what_ are you?" Harry demanded of the clearly magical creature, it snickered a little before it answered, as if it found his astonishment pleasing.

"Xerxes is Xerxes, nasty blind flesh-ling. Xerxes is the Master's familiar, and you? You are the Masters _pet_!" It sneered, lips curling to show off teeth; Harry did not know what he _would_ have done. What he _could_ have done. He didn't need to find out – for someone, at last, familiar appeared in the doorway.

"Play nicely, Xerxes. He has just woken up," Mozenrath murmured to the flying eel soothingly, _tsking_ softly while he scratched beneath Xerxes' chin, it was only then Mozenrath looked to Harry, "please forgive him, Harry, he gets quite jealous at times." There was a fondness in Mozenrath for Xerxes that Harry hadn't seen from the elder male until now. It was comforting, human. Almost.

"Why have you brought me here, Mozenrath?" Harry asked, drawing his knees to his chest as he looked about himself. He could tell nothing from the room he had found himself in. There were no windows, and flickering globes held a magical flame that was almost lovely. It was not too dim– he could read if he chose –yet somehow it was not bright enough to wake him while he had slept.

"Xerxes wonders too." Xerxes cooed as the serpent like eel curled about cat-like on Mozenrath's shoulders.

"You'll be safe here, whatever else does not matter for the moment." Mozenrath answered – though it was not quite the answer that Harry had hoped for it was none the less reassuring. He remembered the heat, the sand – this place was pleasant and chill, while not too dark neither was it particularly humid. It seemed to fit, somehow, with who he knew Mozenrath to be, something of his potential was laid out, made clear now – though Harry had not yet grasped it.

"But…where is here?" Harry asked, as Mozenrath turned from the room, nervous now that it seemed he would be left alone, Harry had gotten to the edge of the bed, to find that his clothing had been changed. He flushed, not yet looking Mozenrath in the eye. His clothes were elegant somehow, dark green shirt that felt smooth and silky, and dark pants made of leather – though he skin felt scaled, reptilian.

"This, Harry, is my home. I am Prince here, for this is the Land of Black Sand." Mozenrath told him plainly, though proud, even as he looked over his shoulder, somewhat amused at Harry's reaction. Harry looked up then. Mozenrath walked forward, and it seemed to Harry that he was meant – no, expected -to follow.

He did.


	8. Empty Ringing Words

"But…where is here?" Harry asked, as Mozenrath turned from the room, nervous now that it seemed he would be left alone, Harry had gotten to the edge of the bed, to find that his clothing had been changed. He flushed, not yet looking Mozenrath in the eye. His clothes were elegant somehow, dark green shirt that felt smooth and silky, and dark pants made of leather – though he skin felt scaled, reptilian.

"This, Harry, is my home. I am Prince here, for this is the Land of Black Sand." Mozenrath told him plainly, though proud, even as he looked over his shoulder, somewhat amused at Harry's reaction. Harry looked up then. Mozenrath walked forward, and it seemed to Harry that he was meant – no, expected -to follow.

He did.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry could not help but look around himself as he went through the motions of following Mozenrath. He thought it would be easy for the huge flying horses that had pulled Madame Maxime to move freely about the halls they walked. There were brightly glowing orbs that hung along the ceiling at intervals so that no shadows lingered.

Along the halls were sculptures and paintings (some moved, others did not for they were the work of master painters) and other curiosities (a mirror in which your reflection waved at you; a tree which produced gold apples and silver plumbs on the same vein; a indoor waterfall which pooled into a river and became mist then turned to a raining cloud only to reproduce the same waterfall) all of it was spectacular. All of it magical.

At first, with all the things that surrounded them, Harry did not notice the lack of windows. He fought with himself over if he should ask about it; Mozenrath might not like the question (though he would likely answer) for he was plainly proud of his home and Harry was almost convinced that it was being shown off.

When they came to a corridor that stretched into a curious circular chamber which was otherwise dark other then the glowing marks upon the walls, Harry wondered if this had been their destination all along. Cut into the floor was a circular pool; it reminded Harry of the Perfects bathroom in Hogwarts. Yet it was clearly not for bathing. In fact, Harry had no idea how it was drained or how it might be filled again. There was an eerie feeling about the area – as if he was being watched.

"This is a viewing chamber. A bit like a crystal ball, some might compare. This sort of place is a lost treasure to your modern seers. This is how it used to be, you know, instead of using only the power within yourself you could use a place like this to amplify it. Even someone without much talent could recognize a true vision when it happened upon them. So…what do you want to see?" In the dim light Harry could see Mozenrath's mischievous grin.

"I...I want to know what happened to the future; is this really the past? I mean, I know it's your home, or at least looks like it – but I'm not sure. Can I even really be here? Will it affect what happens in, you know, my time? Does it all just stop and sit there, waiting for me to come back – or does it go on without me? I mean…I don't mean to sound as if the universe revolves around me, I just…want to know – be sure, you know?" Harry felt as if he was stumbling over the words, and finally stopped when Xerxes seemed to be silently laughing at him; though Mozenrath, at least, pretended understanding.

"Do not go too close, least you fall in." Mozenrath moved his glowing hand over the dark waters, which shifted and moved like uneasy shadows disturbed. Uneasy now, Harry moved closer as he thought he saw shapes – moving images – in the waters.

"What happens if I fall in?" Harry asked softly, glancing to _M_ ozenrath out of the corner of his eye. Mozenrath opened his mouth to answer but Harry never heard the words which he spoke. An image had caught his eye, raining fire within an empty cluttered room – fearing the worst, his heart pounding – he leaned in closer to better see.

He recognized these rooms; Potions.

Snape?

Yet, Severus was not there. Not yet. What was happening? Phasir, seemingly unaware of the danger, appeared in the rooms with a whirl of sand. Around him, where the sand had fallen, the fire rain did not touch. Phasir seemed to be waiting for someone. Or listening. Harry could hear words, if he strained his ears – it was like a whispered half of one conversation.

" _Well, well, mortal flesh and mortal bone – though the soul is shattered like bits of broken glass. Silly fool…to try to_ command _and_ _ **bind**_ _me…"_

Harry felt the danger that stalked the purred words. They were spoken as if a death sentence. Phasir, Harry now was sure, could hear the same words, for he closed his eyes as if pained.

" _A little, I admit – I am easily intrigued."_

Harry wished he knew who (or what) spoke - who those words were meant to be spoken to. Because he knewPhasir was not whoever was being addressed; he was waiting. But waiting for who?

" _You tell old news, be wary – I grow_ bored…."

Though this was only images in a pool, Harry shivered to hear the threat in that whisper.

" _Oh, she…? She is friend – though sometimes foe – younger then I, less and more_."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mozenrath tense, he wished he knew who 'she' was – for whatever Mozenrath saw or heard he recognized. Phasir bowed his head, as if he knew too. Frustrated, Harry bit his bottom lip, he _knew_ this was happening – this was _really happening -_ even now as he sat on cold stone in a room in the past, watching images and shapes becoming more and more real in flickering waters.

" _Why would I care to know? How dull, you and this world and time is; no mystery – nothing of interest, save a little war, a little strife – not much life. Boring, boring, purging burning rain would be more interesting_ …"

He could do nothing to stop what was going to happen. Harry felt his breath catch, pained, as he could not look away. Something else was happening, the door to the rooms which Phasir waited in were opening. Severus stepped though, his clothing singed and burnt, some of it was seared into ash. Yet it was still raining flames. Severus stilled, facing Phasir who did not burn – now that Severus was within the circle of sand, he only smoldered.

Harry wondered then, that if Phasir could do this – why wasn't he doing anything else? Why wasn't he stopping this? Harry trembled when the voice spoke again – Phasir was offering his hand to Severus – and with it safety, refuge – if only Severus would take it.

" _How dull you are! How obsessed! This world will burn, and die – dry, like a little bit of paper, crinkled dust. Perhaps a dying spark, like a last firecracker, will make my doing worth the effort of burning_ …"

Harry saw Phasir panic, grasping Severus by the arm – they both were gone. Harry watched, unable to look away, as it burned – he did not see anyone else. Faintly, he heard cries – he knew people were dying; eventually those cries quieted like a hush in the night though the world continued to burn.

Harry did not understand what was happening, not until the waters released their narrow view on the world and retreated. The whole world was burning – the sun was swallowing the earth up. It was something Harry had learned about in Science, that one day in the far future the sun – millions of years old – would swell into a red giant and consume the world. Or it would die as a white dwarf, but that was not supposed to happen in his life time.

It had.

This was wrong; it was forced. That voice had done this…why – because it was merely bored? Harry knew that wasn't all there was to it – the being, it had been brought –summoned, bound – like a pet - to that place and that time, forced – a grave insult. Harry could understand that the only way to free itself – to hold onto dignity and ensure such as this never happened again – would be to punish and bring death down upon that – his – world.

Harry didn't know he was crying until they dropped into the shifting waters. The reaction was immediate. The water stilled and amber eyes, cat-like gold, were watching him….searching for him. It could not escape. Or run. He would be caught.

Harry knew –distantly – that these were the eyes of the being that had burned his world up like a match.

Then there was a flash of brilliant red light – Mozenrath, Harry knew - and the whole chamber trembled, was breaking apart. Mozenrath grabbed the back of his robe and Harry felt a sensation not unlike being thrown backward while staying still. Yet he found, when he looked around that he was somewhere else – with Mozenrath, and Xerxes – he felt his heart lurch, he was numb – but he knew he was in pain.

It would take long time to heal. There was no going back. He was alone – except…except for Severus, his world wouldn't be remembered. He was aware that Mozenrath was still holding on tightly to his robes, though for the longest time, neither of them spoke.

"We…we'll stay out here for the night." Harry blinked up at Mozenrath, who seemed ill even as he knelt to the sand and putting his glove to it closed his eyes. He called up the sand to form walls around him – it felt like a church within; open and safe. Still there were no windows.

"What…what happened to where we were…Mozenrath?" Harry asked, watching as the other man went about – pacing – with little spurts of magic here and there things – like chairs, benches – a garden, bedrooms – a kitchen, a bathroom started to fill in the empty spaces.

"It's gone. I destroyed it; changed it. It never was; it's somewhere else now. It's…its hard to explain, but…Harry, you have to know, what we saw…we weren't supposed to; it's beyond us, we aren't fit to even witness…something like that; it just, it just doesn't happen. We aren't supposed to remember. Now, now whatever it is that destroyed that place and time, it knows you – we, saw it do that. It'll come after us, we've got – I don't know – time, but that thing, it will find us. I don't know what it will do….I need to…I need to think, I'm sorry Harry…" Mozenrath trailed off, as if dazed, about his shouldersXerxes watched Harry – as if all this was his fault.

 _'Maybe it is_ …' Harry touched his chest, closing his eyes, he wished he hadn't seen – had not asked. Harry sat down on a bench inside the garden, inside the sand dome without windows that Mozenrath had built. He didn't remember going to sleep.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Xerxes thinks you can fix this." Harry opened his eyes to see the gapping jaw of an eel. He flinched, looking away, but Xerxes wouldn't let him go so easily, flicking his tail to see Harry face to face once more.

"I don't see how." Harry mumbled, seeing now the inner walls of a courtyard that surrounded the garden. Above him, like a web, delicate woven threads of silver stretched as if to hold the sky aloft.

"Your tears, they bring the danger – if you leave, so does danger _."_ Xerxes told him matter-of-factly, smug with his words. Harry let out a shuddering sigh which the little eels seemed pleased by.

"Whoever it is that's coming, might go though you to get to me." Harry blinked back tears as he spoke. He had _always_ been a danger to everyone else. Even to Mozenrath, who had been powerful enough to stand up to Voldemort was uneasy – worried, afraid – of this…world destroyer.

"Master would survive it, Xerxes and Master hard to kill. You…are breakable. It makes us weaker." Of this much, Xerxes seemed sure of. Harry rolled his eyes heavenward, looking at the frail web woven above him, it seemed an irony. All his life he'd been a puppet – and now that he was not, he was someone frail – to be protected.

"Thanks." Those words were bitter, sarcastic – but Xerxes did not take offence to them. Instead he seemed enthused.

"It not your fault; Xerxes knows what helps." Curling closer about his shoulders, the little eel rubbed at his cheek almost comfortingly. Harry frowned though, glancing to him almost hopeful though he was still wary. He remembered how Xerxes had greeted him. Though he could not blame the flying eel for being suspicious or jealous; for the longest time, Xerxes had been Mozenrath's only trusted companion.

"What would that be?" Harry asked, almost at a whisper. Xerxes wriggled a little closer for warmth – the night was cold as the day was hot. Harry did not grudge the little eel a little of his warmth. He did not see the

"Agrabah. Magic kingdom. Phasir is there often. It is not far." Xerxes told him in halting sentences; as if unsure of how much to tell Harry. Frowning slightly in thought, Harry narrowed his eyes, determined, upon the delicate web stretched above him. He did not want to be a danger to those who wanted only to protect him. He would not see Mozenrath endangered because of him.

"How…how would I get there?" Something in the garden moved and rustled, and Harry wondered guiltily if Mozenrath had caught them. He wondered what the other would think of their plans. Instead, a voice that was feminine and almost like a purr came from behind him.

"I would take you." Harry turned to look, and saw a cat in the shape of a woman – or a woman in the shape of a cat; he wasn't sure for there were features of both. The intelligence in those slanted yellow eyes that caught the light in the dark could not be denied, no matter how cat like the eyes.

"Who…who are you? Why are you here?" Harry asked her, though only a little suspicious – surely only someone who was a friend to Mozenrath could find them in the desert land of Black Sand.

"Mirage, you might say Mozenrath and I have a debt to settle between us; as to why I'm here, I am an old _acquaintance_ of Phasir…" Something in Harry told him to trust this person, no matter how strange in appearance; after all he had not judged Hagrid by his half-giant nature when he had found out – why was this any different?

"He…he approves of this?" Harry murmured dazedly, unable to take his eyes away from Mirage. It seemed rude somehow, watching her as he was. He could not help it though; there was something so familiar about her. As if he had known her well, but had forgotten…

"In his own way…." Mirage hinted with a vague sort of smile. It was almost mischievous. It wasn't something to trust – yet it was so in her nature, he did not know why he was not alarmed.

"Why…why do I…trust you?" Harry saw the garden filling with mist that turned to thick fog – he was not alarmed, as he could still see her; soon all he could see was her – even Xerxes who had been curled about his neck was gone.

"You are of my blood…." She smiled when she finished her words, it took that much longer for them to sink in; her smile, sorrow and mischief and pride - it was the last thing he would see before he woke. Though her words haunted him as he slept, lingering.


	9. A Carpet That Lifts You Off Your Feet

Harry knew of only two ways to wake; quickly, expecting physical harm for a delay, or, more rarely; slowly drifting between sleep and wakefulness, knowing that your eyes are closed and it is not reality you see, yet you linger between the two as if unable to choose. It was with a painful lurch of his heart, as if someone had reached into his chest and was twisting painfully, that Harry woke, sharply inhaling.

That had been his mistake, hacking and choking on the dust and sand, Harry found himself as prone and helpless as he had been asleep – only now, he was awake. Awake, and alone – kidnapped, stolen away. It was a terrifying prospect.

He did not know the language, the customs, or even what day it was.

Harry stumbled to his feet, and out of the corner of the two buildings that had been sheltering him. All around him were people, noisily chattering together and browsing the stalls that stood at odd angles in the market, no one had taken notice of him. He learned against the wall, his hand against rough sandstone.

Relief swelled up in his chest releasing the tight tension there. Harry had feared he'd up somewhere stranger then here.

" _Thief_!" Harry couldn't help jumping a little at the shriek, it's a little brown monkey the market owner points to, chattering silent insults as it looks behind in contempt at the stirring throng; mockingly, Harry sees it's tongue peek out, out from beneath the market stalls a small body hurls toward freedom – _toward him_.

They collide in a tangle of limbs, the monkey recovers more swiftly, climbing up Harry's chest and chattering angrily at him, face-to-face.

"Sorry, sorry!" Harry says, waving a hand to shoo it away, though he knows better not to touch it, tame as it acts – it isn't some pet. It clutches at its bundle of prized grapes, and guards them with a hiss from Harry's flinging hand.

Harry realizes too late his mistake, and Harry must be sun-sick or sand-sick because he swears he hears a small " _uh-oh_ " – people might not go after a monkey-thief, but a boy-thief is fair game. Harry stumbles to his feet, hands guarding rising in front of him, so they see he hasn't anything to hide.

"It's not what you think, he's not mine!" Harry takes a step back into the alley that had sheltered him, away from the glare of the sun and people alike. A small child-like hand tugs on his shirt, as if to lead him away.

A dark chuckle bubbles out of the throng of market sellers and goers, a man steps forward, hands raised mockingly in front of him like Harry. His hands are clenched into fists. Harry needs no words to sense that this man wants to fight.

Harry takes a step back, the man a step forward, and the little hand twists on his other shoulder – Harry glances in that direction and sees hope. Two shops built closely together, but not _together_ , between them is a gap just wide enough for Harry to pass. He hopes, left with no other choice, Harry takes the chance.

It's a struggle to get air between walls built of sand and made stone hard; it's hot and the sand burns down his through as he breaths in small breaths – he feels the building urge for more air, but stubbornly holds it in, breathing shallowly though nose and mouth.

Behind him is a outcry, then grunting pleas for help, senseless struggling of a captive between the walls; Harry doesn't look back to see who had been fool enough to follow him through the gap, he's only got eyes for the promise of air and freedom of movement ahead.

With a cough he can't help any longer, Harry gives himself away as he reaches freedom – the monkey kindly pats him on the back like saying " _not bad_ ". It offers a grape in reward; Harry looks about before he takes it, wary now.

The monkey rolls his eyes heavenward; Harry stung that a _monkey_ can make him feel cowardly, takes the grape – he gets a thumb up from the monkey and if he imagines the word " _all-right_!" he ignores it with a shiver of unease.

The monkey eats, well, like a monkey, then offers another grape with a small prompting of " _more?_ "; Harry shakes his head, then by the critical brown eyes of his the monkey on his shoulder, he's looked over, then given a raised eyebrow of doubt, to question Harry's needing or not needing to be fed. It offers again, and Harry takes it, chewing with obvious slowness.

A shadow passes the wedge of the building, and Harry looks to see he's being eyed by a burly man in an official looking clothing; he's certainly more intimidating looking then anyone at the market.

He narrows his eyes, not on Harry in his black cloak and hood – but on the monkey.

"I know that monkey." The man mutters loudly enough for Harry to hear, and the little thief Harry's befriended looks up at the intruder with perked ears.

" _Abu_!" It's a howling snarl, and the man strides forward with intent. Abu the monkey squeaks, and chatters at Harry too quickly for Harry to hear words that might not be there. The meaning is all the same clear; help, get me away from that freak!

Harry, with a bow that halts the approaching brute in his tracks, quickly rises and spins about finding his way by Abu's hints (a tug on cloth " _there, yes_ ", or franticly on his hair " _no, not there, not there_!", and once a quick pinch " _your going to get me killed_!") without Abu to guide the way, Harry would have been resoundingly lost.

Still he finds himself in abandoned building, the sand-stone falling away to reveal a wooden frame, and no way out in sight. Abu scrambles down his back and onto the carpet on the floor, he tugs on it, until little words like " _come on_!" and " _wake up_ " gibber out, Harry feels ridiculous as he kneels to look under the carpet, thinking maybe there is a escape-trap he has to trigger.

His hand on the carpet is suddenly _moved_ as if with a life of its own, Harry is knocked on his ass for being unbalanced (by a _carpet_!) and made breathless as the carpet shivers and rises into the air; it's attention seems to somehow focus on Abu – and if Harry is mad for hearing words out a monkey's mouth (" _home_ " Abu has just demanded of the flying carpet), at least he's not alone.

The carpet, Harry blinks and rubs his eyes but still sees that the carpet has just nodded – with its tassels.

Abu turns to him with a grin, and Harry can only see his teeth. It's uncertain enough that Harry's trusted Abu this much (might be sun-sickness, this trust) – but _this_? Abu tugs on Harry's cloak as the carpet tassel closest to Harry waves, in a way that seems to invite Harry to sit down on the carpet and take a flight.

" _Come on, no time_ " Abu says, and sure enough he's right, Harry peers out around a wooden frame of the upper floor window and sees brutes just like the one who knew Abu's name scouring around. ' _All for a monkey_?' Harry shakes his head, and knows that if _he's_ sun-sick, at least everyone else is too: though that it isn't really a comfort.

With one last tug on his cloak, Harry follows, sitting down cross-legged on the carpet, Abu smugly seated in his lap. The magical carpet raises smoothly, hovering long enough for the milling men down below to take notice – there is a cry, the tassels all give a wiggle, and Harry is zooming out the window on a magic carpet.

Harry is a wizard, yes, but he never expected something like this, witches on flying brooms seem tamer and more normal then this – it feels wild and magical; below him the sand stretches on forever after the city ends. Harry looks down at him, and feels uneasy and heart sick for home, but he knows he has no home – will never again know 'home', he has only to close his eyes to see his world consumed by the blistering sun; the same sun that shines down on him now.

Abu pats his thigh with a " _aw_ " cooed up at him, Harry brushes his eyes and finds his tears. If the monkey thinks he's scared of heights, and not mourning a world, it's just as well.

The magical carpet heads for the palace while Abu is distracted by Harry, snuggling against him and chattering about what Harry _thinks_ is Abu's first meeting with the magical carpet. Harry glances at the palace grounds, and the carpet's focus is upon him again, the tassel seems to become a finger, a knot of strands raising while the rest curl beneath, the 'finger' shakes "no, no".

Harry says not a word, fingers combing though Abu's fur so sooth his heart and Abu.

"Carpet – here carpet, here boy!" A man in blue calls from below, and Abu tenses up, tugging on a tassel and hissing " _no, no, not here_!", but it's no use – the magical carpet lands at the feet of the man in blue- and Abu takes off for the nearest tree.

"Genie, you found him?" A young man with only a few more years then Harry steps toward them, brown hair and brown eyes and red fez purple vest lined in gold and billowing white pants – he looks like a prince, if you were to ignore the bare feet – he eyes Harry up and down. "Who's this?"

"Actually, Al – he's who found Abu, I believe?" Harry mutely nods. The man isn't _wearing_ blue, _he is blue_ and all but bald but for the thatch of hair on his chin and the top-knot at his head – gold cuffs on his upper arms below the wrists, he's wearing purple pants with a red sash and pointy shoes.

"Thanks." Al smile is honestly charming, and then glances to Genie who points to the tree Abu ran up.

"Abu, come on down – please? I'm sorry; you aren't just a pet I taught tricks, that Sultan was wrong – he's gone now, he's not coming back, I promise!" Al coaxed the leaves above rustled and fell into his hair like an insult.

"Al," Genie hissed "don't make promises you can't keep!" Al glared, and Genie shrunk back hands raised for peace.

" _She say sorry, or no stay_!" Abu chattered back at Al, a parrot joined him in the tree, and spoke.

"Ah, buddy, don't be like that! I'll give you a cracker." The parrot lured, Abu was clearly unimpressed.

"Iago, you're _not helping_!" Al growled, Iago fluttered his wings in a shrug.

"I tried; he clearly can't be reasoned with, perhaps a bribe?" Iago got no response, save Abu's mutter of " _oh brother_ "; Al ignored Iago and pointed a finger upward to Abu.

"Don't make me come up there." Abu raised a brow, as if to ask " _can you_?". Al grit his teeth and looked about ready to follow through and do something foolish, when a woman who was clearly a royal, gold adorned her ears and neck and a lapis lazuli stone was inlayed in a cloth band about her head, her pants and top were blue silk.

"Aladdin, stop." Her soft voice caused Al to cease at once with a sheepish, "Jasmine."

When she continued, she looked to Abu alone.

"I'm sorry Abu, you aren't a pet – you are our friend. It was wrong to treat you like that." Abu drops to Aladdin's shoulder, and where the he's itched under his chin by a smiling Aladdin; it's charming and simple companionship, only Harry sees the disdain she hides with a smile and lowered eyes.

"Cheep entertainment gets paid, princess." Iago warns, and Harry thinks he isn't alone in noticing after all.

Iago flies down to land at Harry's shoulder, peering at him with a bird's eye view.

"Polly wants a cracker?" Harry offers for a greeting, and Iago laughs. Genie looks to Harry wide eyed, mouth unclosing.

"Look who the monkey dragged in! Kid's from _the future_ Genie – and he's Harry Potter too." Iago preens; with his beak he takes aside Harry's fringe that hides his lightening bolt scar. Their eyes are uncomprehending, all save blue Genie.

"You shouldn't be here." Genie, Harry realizes, is a _jinn_ – a wish granting, lamb rubbing jinn.

"There is no where else for him to be." It isn't any Genie, Aladdin or Jasmine, Abu,or Iago (or flying Carpet) that speaks – no, it's Phasir, with Severus Snape at his side.


End file.
